


speak to me

by kiwiibiird



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Muteness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Selective Muteness, Slow Burn, Stranger Things 2, chapter specific warnings are more in depth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-01-31 19:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiibiird/pseuds/kiwiibiird
Summary: Billy’s not deaf.He’s not dumb, or stupid, or a handicap like some of the kids used to say he was back in middle school.He just-- he doesn’t talk.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers & Billy Hargrove, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 241
Kudos: 742





	1. before, one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go  
This is my first work on ao3, enjoy! 
> 
> chapter warnings: there are two prominent scenes at the beginning and end that depict Billy’s child abuse. Nothing too graphic, but it’s there. If that’s not for you, be careful and stay safe <3

Billy’s not deaf. 

He’s not dumb, or stupid, or a handicap like some of the kids used to say he was back in middle school.

He just-- he doesn’t talk.

Billy Hargrove stopped talking the night his mother left him when he was ten years old, and he hasn’t spoken a single word since.

His father thought it was a phase, at first.

Neil Hargrove thought he could wait Billy out, make him _slip up_, get him to break the silent treatment bullshit and be a normal kid again.

“What, are you a _mute_ now?” He’d sneered in Billy’s face the morning after his mother had left them, breath _reeking_ of stale alcohol from the previous night, “You’re mad, is that it? Not gonna speak to me because I scared_ mommy _away? Is that it?”

When he didn’t get an answer, Neil had scoffed, but let it drop, “Don’t be a _pussy_, son. Get over it.”

Billy had stayed quiet.

***

It’s not a phase.

It became apparent that it wasn’t some sort of teenage act of rebellion -- some sort of _childish revenge_ \-- after the first few weeks, and Neil got sick of waiting him out.

“Say something.” Neil slurred after almost a month of Billy’s silence.

Swaying on his feet, Billy’s father pulled another beer out of the fridge. Slamming the door shut hard enough to make Billy flinch, he stared at his son through bloodshot eyes, movements jerky and uncaring.

Neil had taken to drinking in the absence of his wife. It’s not like he wasn’t a heavy drinker _before_, but--

“_Hey_,” Neil took a heavy swig from the bottle in his hand, words sloppy and empathetic, “I said _say something_.”

Billy didn’t say anything.

Just as suddenly as it was in his hand, his father’s beer bottle was shattering into pieces on the kitchen floor.

“Fuckin’ _speak_.” Neil roared.

Breath caught in his throat, Billy watched as shards of glass scattered around his feet. Beer began to spread across the dirty kitchen tile, soaking into his socks.

His heart pounded and his ears rang.

He stayed quiet.

Neil went _ballistic_.

“Say something! Say _anything_. Speak, you goddamn son of a bitch, _speak_!”

Billy didn’t say anything.

Moving faster than Billy ever thought he could this drunk, Neil strode forward and grabbed Billy roughly by the chin. Wrenching his son’s face to look up into his, Neil snarled, breath _hot_, fingers tight enough to _bruise_, “Speak.”

Billy didn’t speak.

The sharp sting of his father’s class ring across his cheek is a feeling that Billy will never forget.

Because when he didn’t speak up, it happened again. And again. And again and again and _again and again_\--

Neil gave up after Billy’s face was red and bruised. After the skin was broken, blood weeping down Billy’s chin. After his eyes were wide and glassy on his father’s face and he was _shaking_ and he couldn’t stop.

“Fine.” Neil spat, jerking his hand away from his son’s face like it _burned him_. He shoved past him and deeper into the house, words spat out like a curse, “_Fine_. Don’t talk. Perfect. Don’t ever fuckin’ talk again. Fine by me.”

The footsteps receded. The bedroom door slammed shut.

Billy’s heart _pounded_ and his ears _rang_.

In the silence of the dark kitchen, a wretched, broken sob ripped through the air.

Horrified, he slapped both hands over his mouth and dropped down to his knees on the kitchen tile.

Glass grinding into his skin, beer soaking into his pajama pants, he squeezed his hands tightly around his mouth. His fingers dug in hard, hard enough to _bruise_.

Painful, awful sobs wracked his body. It made his eyes ache, his chest _burn_.

He wanted his mom. He wanted her to wrap him up in her arms and pet his hair and tell him it would be okay. He wanted her to cradle him while they lay in bed together and sing Tangled Up in Blue to him while he fell asleep. He wanted to bury his face in her stomach and breathe in and smell coconuts and ocean salt and _he wanted his mom_.

He wanted his mom.

Silently, Billy shattered into a million pieces.

He cleaned up the beer bottle, after.

***

When Billy meets Max, he’s twelve and there are scars on his knees. 

He kinda likes her right away.

Almost.

“Billy,” Neil says, clapping a large hand on her tiny shoulder, the force of it making her frame wobble under the pressure, “meet your younger sister, Maxine.”

Her hair is fiery red, her eyes are frigid blue. She crosses her arms and huffs, “It’s _Max_.”

Billy shakes her hand. He doesn’t say anything.

Max’s eyebrows fly up, her tone snarky and sharp, and Billy respects her confidence, “Is he gonna say anything?”

“Billy doesn’t talk, Maxine.”

The icy blue staring up at him blows _wide_, brow scrunching up in confusion. She stares at him like he’s got two heads, like there’s something_ wrong_ with him.

She steps up to him, face twisted up all funny, like she’s looking at a _science experiment_.

“Say my name.” Max says.

Billy kinda likes her right away.

Almost.

He doesn’t say it. 

*** 

Middle school was never easy. 

Some kid thinking he’s tough hit a Hispanic boy, calls him a _fairy_. Billy is fourteen and _angry_ and he goes after the kid. 

Billy hits him. The boy hits Billy back. It’s a _rush_. 

They go back and forth. Billy smashes his fist against the kid’s ear, and the kid screams and Billy _grins_, wicked and bright. 

Billy gets on top of him. He hits the kid again and again and _again and again_\-- 

He looks back at the Hispanic boy when the kid underneath him stops moving. He gets up, maybe steps on the kid’s hand on purpose, just to hear him groan, and offers his hand to the Hispanic boy. 

The boy doesn’t take Billy’s hand. 

His hair is a mess of short black curls and his fists are balled up where he’s sitting on the ground. 

He’s crying. 

“I’m not a fairy,” he says, and when he looks up at Billy, his brown eyes turn glassy and golden in the sunlight, “I’m _not_.” 

Billy doesn’t say anything. 

The silence goes on for too long. The boy’s lip curls in a snarl, “Don’t believe me, _pendejo_?” He pushes to his feet, gets up in Billy’s face. His whole body _screams_ defensive. 

He shoves past Billy, spitting the words out like a curse, “_Jódete_, I don’t have to prove anything to you.” 

Billy stays quiet and watches him go. 

*** 

Max spends whatever chance she gets talking to Billy. 

Billy’s fifteen and Max is eleven and _annoying_. 

She’s _relentless_. Any time she sees Billy, she’s talking and talking and asking him questions. 

So many stupid questions. 

“Did school go okay?” Max asks him while they’re walking home one day. 

The sun is hot in California and the wind feels nice while they walk. Billy kinda wants to just drop everything and take off for the beach. Wants to dig his toes into the sand and dive into the waves. It’s kinda the only thing he ever wants to do. 

_The wave was seven feet. Did you see it, mom?_

Billy nods. 

“What did you do?” Max asks, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder for the hundredth time. She’s got her backpack over one shoulder and her skateboard -- which is half the size of her little body -- tucked under her other arm. She’s struggling to walk with both and it’s starting to bug Billy. 

Billy doesn’t answer. 

“Do you have any homework?” Max keeps trying, and Billy grits his teeth, wishing she’d just _give it a rest already_. 

He nods. 

“In what class?” 

Billy glares at her.

“What? I’m just trying to make _conversation_,”Max huffs, tone still as snarky and sharp as the day they met. She’s still struggling to hoist her backpack over her shoulder without dropping her skateboard. It’s driving Billy _insane_, “So you can keep listening to _me_ talk--“ she almost drops the skateboard, and the backpack slips off her shoulder entirely while she tries to catch it, “or you can _tell me what class_\--.” 

Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw aches, Billy snatches at her backpack and _pulls_. 

“_Hey_!” Max stumbles, tries to stop Billy from taking it without dropping her skateboard again, but Billy’s stronger and wrenches the backpack free of her grip, “_Billy_, what are you--?” 

Billy slings her backpack over his shoulder. It’s much lighter than his own -- which he’s got three textbooks shoved into, along with a hundred other million things -- and keeps walking. 

Max blinks, blue eyes wide as she stares after him, clutching onto her skateboard with both hands. There’s a little crease between her brow as she hurries after him, “_Hey_. Hey, Billy-- _wait_!” 

Billy keeps walking, but then Max is grabbing his hand and pulling him to a stop, “_Billy_.” 

He stops, eyes rolling, and turns back to her. He huffs, and raises his eyebrows, the universal sign for _what is it_. 

“Why did you take my backpack?” 

Billy shakes his head, and turns to keep walking home because they are _not_ doing this right now. They are not about to have a _heart to heart_ over a goddamn backpack. 

Max has other plans.

“_Billy_,” she’s still holding on to his hand, pulling him to a stop once more, “_Jesus_\-- I said _wait_.” 

Jaw working, Billy turns to look at her, agitation written all over his face. She’s staring at him, _expectant_. He makes the _what is it_ face again. 

When he just keeps staring, Max throws her hands up in the air, waving the skateboard around, “Answer my question, _jackass_. Why did you take my backpack?” 

Billy wants to laugh. He almost _does_. 

Something like an exasperated smile breaks across his face, and he’s shrugging, a little helplessly. 

Because honestly, how the hell is he supposed to tell Max that he didn’t like seeing her struggle along when Billy’s right there and ready to help? Ready to take on any burden she has to make it at least a little easier for her, without _words_? 

He can’t, so he just shrugs. 

Max stares at him. He can’t look too long or he feels like he’s gonna drown in blue blue_ blue_.

She asks, eyes hard, “Did you do it to be an _asshole_?” 

Billy glares, but when all she does is raise an eyebrow, expectant, he huffs and indignantly shakes his head _no_. 

“Okay,” Max nods, and she’s still staring at him. Like he’s some sort of puzzle she’s gotta figure out, “Okay. Did you do it because I was walking too slow or because I couldn’t carry the backpack and my skateboard?”

Billy nods-- a quick, jerky motion. 

The crease between her brow goes deeper, “Yes to _which thing_?” 

Billy throws his hands up in the air. He’s tired and irritated and he feels _stupid_ about not being able to just tell her and he wants to _go home_. 

He starts to move to walk away when Max plants herself in front of him and shoves one finger in his face, “_One_ for walking too slow--“ she holds up two fingers, “--_two_ for the skateboard. Which one is it?” 

Billy wants to shove past her, wants to drop everything and _go_. 

What Billy really wants is to curl up in his bedroom and pretend there are fingers petting through his hair. Wants to cradle himself in his bed and listen to Tangled Up in Blue. He wants to bury his face in his pillow and pretend he smells coconuts and ocean salt. 

Instead, he looks down and sees Max staring back at him. 

Billy feels transparent under her gaze. Like he’s made of glass, every part of him on display for her to see. 

It’s not, but he _feels_ like it is. 

Billy’s gotta give her some credit, though. Max is trying, and that’s more than anything anyone else has ever done for him. 

Billy holds up two fingers. 

“Okay.” Max nods again, “You took my backpack because I couldn’t carry it with the skateboard, is that it?” her nose scrunches up, like she can’t believe what she’s about to say, “You weren’t doing it to be, like, _nice_, were you?” 

Billy nods. 

That shuts her right up. Blue eyes go impossibly wider, “_Oh_.” 

Billy scoffs, rolls his eyes. _Yeah_, Max. _Oh_. 

Billy might not be kind, certainly not _nice_, but he’s not _evil_. 

Max goes a little soft at that. There’s something close to a smile ghosting on her lips when she says, “Thanks, Billy.” 

Billy reaches out and ruffles Max’s hair. Gets it all in her face and pushes on her head, just to be _annoying_. 

“_Hey_,” Max swats his hand away. She’s scowling, but it’s fond, “I just said thank you for being nice. Don’t go right back to being an _asshole_.” 

He grins, all sharp and bright, and Max grins_ right back_. 

They walk home together. 

*** 

High school is better, _sort of_. 

Billy is sixteen and his silence isn’t as well known here. He’s a big _mystery_ to everyone else. _The boy who never talks_. 

A couple of juniors corner him in the courtyard. One of the bigger ones, his friends call him _Chase_, steps up to Billy-- _looms_, really. He asks if Billy’s _deaf_, if he’s _dumb_, “Like my Aunt Marjorie. You need help wiping your ass too, _mutey_?” 

His friends crack up and Billy doesn’t even hesitate. He just _swings_. 

It’s satisfying, watching a kid like Chase -- who is much, much bigger than Billy -- stumble. Watching his nose spurt blood and Billy thinks that _he _did that. That kid got his ass handed to him, and that was all_ Billy_. 

It’s _empowering_, really. 

Then there are three other guys coming at him, and Billy’s _not_ _ready_. 

One of them clocks him right across the temple, and Billy falls flat on his ass. 

He tries to get back up, but then there’s a kid _sitting on his legs_ and another is _pinning his arms_ over his head and Chase is on top of him and squishing him down against the pavement. Billy _thrashes_, desperate to get the hands _off off off_. 

He wants to scream. He almost _does_. 

Then his head is being slammed down, and his world _spins_. 

Chase spits in Billy’s face. Calls Billy a _mutey bitch_. 

His friends cackle and Billy’s heart _pounds_ and his ears _ring_. 

And just as suddenly as Chase’s ugly mug is in his face, it’s _not_. 

Billy blinks, dazed, and all the hands he wanted off are gone. He realizes why a few seconds later. 

A Hispanic boy is dragging Chase off of Billy by the hair. His eyes are brown and angry and in the sunlight they turn _golden_. 

From the ground, Billy hears, “Get him, Chase! Fuck his fairy ass up!” 

He hears a punch land. Hears someone snarl, and it’s guttural, _furious_ Spanish. Then there is the quick _swish_ of something sharp in the air. 

“Shit. He’s got a _knife_. Go!”

And then the Hispanic boy’s face is hovering above Billy’s. 

He asks, pushing black curls out of his face, “You okay?” 

Billy doesn’t say anything. 

“Hey. Did you hear me, _cariño_? I said _are you okay_?” There’s an earring that looks like a spike dangling from his left ear. 

Billy still doesn’t say anything. 

The Hispanic boy offers to help Billy off the ground. Billy takes his hand-- the spike is actually a feather. It’s silver and intricate, dangling from a little chain. 

“_Cómo te llamas_?” The boy tries. 

Billy stays quiet. 

He eyes Billy for a moment, before his head tilts to the side. He looks at him funny; a look Billy is used to at this point. 

Everyone always looks at him that way when they first find out. 

“That _pendejo_ called you a _mutey bitch_.” there’s blood pouring from the boy’s nose from where Chase’s hit landed, “Is he right?” 

Billy jerks away from the question, takes a step back like some sort of caged animal. Bares his teeth in a silent snarl and everything. Shakes his head vigorously _no_. The movement makes his vision swim. 

Those golden eyes are on Billy, and _it_ _burns_, “Then why don’t you tell me your _name_?” 

Something hot and defensive and very close to _shame_ writhes under Billy’s skin. Jaw working, he looks down at his shoes, body warm and fists clenched tight at his sides. He doesn’t answer. 

The boy laughs, “_Cálmese_. I don’t care if you don’t talk.” 

Billy looks back up at him, shifting on his feet. Unsure. Untrusting. 

The boy holds his hands up, like he’s gonna _spook Billy _with one wrong move. Black curls flop into his face when he laughs, “It’s good, _really_. I don’t know your name and you don’t have to tell me. My name’s Angel. I’ll just call you _cariño, vale_?” 

Billy stares at him. Angel is smiling, and there’s blood from his nose staining white teeth _pink_.

Billy thinks he likes Angel’s smile. 

*** 

Max still asks him questions, but she’s kinder about it, now. 

She asks him easy things, stuff he can shake his head yes or no to. 

They fall into a routine while they walk home. She skateboards and asks questions. He carries her backpack and shakes his head yes or no. 

It’s nice. 

*** 

Billy doesn’t ever talk, so Angel _always_ does. 

He talks in English while they’re at school. He talks in Spanish when they’re not. 

Billy’s fascinated by how easily Angel switches. How the words just roll off his tongue like water. 

Like speaking is _easy_. Like it’s nothing at all. 

Billy watches him, sitting with his elbows braced on his knees by the bonfire, sparks mixing with the stars that are shyly peeking through the sunset, while Angel talks in rapid Spanish to the girls across the way.

The beach is cool tonight. The sand beneath his toes and the beer can Angel pressed into his hands make goosebumps run up his arms, but sitting close to the bonfire helps. 

In the sunset, the waves are dark amber. 

“It’s a _party, cariño_,” Angel had said. He pulled off his shirt and dropped it in the sand next to Billy, and suddenly there was bronze skin _everywhere_, “Have some _fun_.” 

It’s a party. There are people all around the fire laughing and dancing and talking. 

Billy’s not. 

He’s watching Angel talk to the girls. Their skirts are short and their hair is pretty. Billy thinks _maybe_ he wouldn’t mind holding one of their hands, _maybe_ he wouldn’t mind _kissing _one. 

His eyes are drawn to bronze skin, drawn to the black mop of curls that fall into Angel’s face when he laughs. His eyes follow the way brown eyes catch in the firelight, the way they turn _golden_. 

Angel’s teeth are white and sharp in the sunset. Billy catches glimpses of them as he leans in to whisper in girls’ ears, and they blush and giggle and something funny twists up in Billy’s gut. 

He wonders what it would be like if Angel were to smile at him like that. Wonders what it would be like if Angel’s teeth were to catch on his ear, if his lips were to graze his skin. 

Billy can’t look anymore, so he looks down at the sand bunching around his toes. 

When he dares to glance up again, Angel’s pressed up to a girl’s side, Billy thinks her name might be _Mía_. Her pretty blonde locks are _everywhere_, obscuring Angel’s face while he whispers in her ear. He winds an arm around her waist, tucks her hair behind her ear, exposing the tan skin to the firelight. He’s whispering something and she’s _pressing close_ to him, delicate, painted fingernails tracing over the bronze skin at his collarbone. 

Then Angel’s teeth are glinting in the firelight and he’s _kissing her neck_\-- 

Billy looks at the shirt in the sand next to him. 

He drains the rest of his beer in one go.

***

Max is quiet while they walk home. 

Typically she’d be doing her twenty questions shtick already, wobbling her way down the sidewalk while she tries to skateboard as slow as Billy’s walking speed. She’s gotten pretty good. 

Today, though, she’s walking with her skateboard in her hands, not saying anything. She keeps sneaking all these strange little glances at him, though, and it’s got Billy on edge. 

Finally after a few minutes of silence and those sneaking, worried glances, Billy has enough. He moved to her side and elbows her. Not hard, but enough to jostle her, to get her attention. 

“Huh?” Blinking like Billy pulled her out of some sort of deep thought, Max looks up at him. A deer caught in the headlights, “What is it, Billy?” 

Billy nudges her again, softer this time, gaze expectant. He hopes it’s enough to convey _what’s wrong?_

It must be enough, or maybe Max is just getting better at reading him, because she shakes her head, waves him off, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” 

But it doesn’t sound like _nothing_, because there’s a little crease in between her brow and she looks worried and Billy doesn’t like it _at all_. 

So he sets a hand on her shoulder and stops them. 

“It’s _nothing_,” Max insists, but she’s not _looking_ at him, and her arms are crossed and her entire body is _screaming_ with uncertainty, “I’m fine, Billy, _seriously_.”

He squeezes her shoulder. _Tell me what’s going on. _

“It’s just--“ Max bites her lip, and when she looks at him, she looks _nervous_, “It’s just that I-- I bought something yesterday and I haven’t shown you yet because I don’t know what you’re gonna think and I don’t want you to be _mad_ _at me_.” 

Billy’s at a complete loss. He just keeps his hand on her shoulder, and shuffles a little closer. Hopes it’s enough to tell her _it’s okay. _

Max stares at him a moment longer before she’s pulling her backpack off of Billy’s shoulder. 

Billy lets her. Watches as she rummages around inside of it and then she’s pulling out a thick looking book and holding it up for Billy to see and she’s saying, “I know you don’t like to talk and I would never, _ever_ force you but-- but I thought this would make it easier for you and I to communicate? _Sort of_. You totally don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I just thought-- I don’t know what I thought. Just take it.” 

Billy takes the book from her. 

He reads _American Sign Language Dictionary_ on the front cover. 

Something warm and strangely _sharp_ spreads inside of him. It makes his chest hurt. 

He and Max don’t touch. They’re just not _like that_. 

Billy hugs her tight. Hugs her like he’s never hugged anyone-- tight and warm and maybe a little desperate.

Max hugs him just as tight, little body folding into Billy’s arms like it’s the only place she wants to be. 

He should hug her more often. 

*** 

Angel sits with him at the bonfire tonight. 

The girls are still there. Their skirts are still short and they’re still shooting Angel smiles and calling _qué guapo, chico_! 

Mía, the blonde one with the curls, keeps waving, keeps _winking_ and blowing him _kisses_. But she doesn’t come over, even though she’s dying to. Billy can guess why. 

Neil Hargrove had a bad day today. His favorite basketball team has had a pretty tough losing streak. 

Billy’s got the black eye to prove it. 

Angel smiles back at her, calls _salva un poco de amor por mí, Mía_, but he’s not sitting with _them_.

He’s sitting with Billy. 

He buries the two beer cans he’s holding in the sand between them, and then Angel is talking, “¿_Duele_?”

Billy looks back, face scrunching up in confusion. He’s picked up a little Spanish from his time with Angel, but he’s not an expert or anything.

Angel gestures to his own face, where Billy’s black eye would be on him, “Your eye. What happened?” 

Billy shakes his head. He sharply taps his index and middle finger against his thumb twice without even thinking; sign language for _no_. 

He and Max have been practicing sign language together every night now. She sneaks into his room late and they work on it, huddling close next to Billy’s shitty bedside lamp and practicing simple phrases together. 

Neither of them are very good yet, but--

But Billy was able to muddle his way through telling her that he had algebra homework while they walked home today. Max had smiled so big Billy might as well have said it _out loud_. 

There’s a slow smile on Angel’s face when Billy looks. Angel copies the movement, tapping his fingers together twice. The firelight paints his face in yellows and oranges, “What’s that mean?” 

The smile gets bigger when Billy smooths out some sand in between them, and Angel leans in close, shoulder pressing up against Billy’s, while Billy carves the word _NO_ into the sand in between them. 

Billy repeats the motion while Angel looks between him and the word in the sand, “No, you don’t wanna talk about it?” 

Billy nods. 

“That’s fine. I won’t talk about it, then. I’ll talk about something else. Is that okay?” 

Billy does the sign for _yes_, makes his hand into a fist and bobs it back and forth. 

“Does that mean yes?” 

Billy gives him a thumbs up. 

Angel throws his head back and laughs. The silver feather turns orange when Angel turns his head just right. 

Billy smiles at him. His fingers _twitch_, and he wants to reach out and rub the feather between his fingers, he wants to push the black curls out of Angel’s face so he can see his golden eyes and Billy just _wants_. 

Billy wants a _lot_. 

It doesn’t help when Angel leans close to Billy’s space, like their _sharing a secret_. His breath is warm on his ear when he half whispers half says, “You’re funny, _cariño_. Did you know that?” 

Billy huffs, insides warm at the compliment. He shakes his head, signs _no_ again. 

Angel’s teeth glint in the firelight. 

“Pretty, too.” 

Billy’s heart pounds. His breath _catches_. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

Angel leans into Billy’s side, fingers tangling in Billy’s curls, breath ghosting against his cheek, “You’re hair’s getting so _long_.”

Angel keeps talking, but it’s going in one ear and right out the other. Because all Billy can _feel_ is Angel’s fingers in his hair, twisting it around and tugging a little every so often. Angel shuffles closer, so he can lean his head against Billy’s, and Billy curls in close to his side without a second thought. 

He can feel Angel’s hand trail down to his nape, then back up in to his hair, a steady, lulling rhythm. It’s slow and careful and it's the closest thing to a hug Angel’s ever given Billy, and Billy _eats it up_ as much as he possibly can, not wanting to waste their closeness for even a second. 

No one’s ever touched Billy like this. No one’s ever sat with him and pet his hair like this. Not since, well. 

Not since his _mom_. 

Billy thinks of coconuts and ocean salt. Thinks of a white dress with blue and red flowers. Thinks about gentle fingers carding through his hair, pulling him farther and farther away from reality. Thinks of a quiet, sweet voice singing _heading out for the east coast, Lord knows I've paid some dues, gettin’ through_\--

“You still with me, _cariño_?”

Billy opens his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he closed them. 

He’s got his head on Angel’s shoulder, face tucked up close in the crook of his neck. He smells like bonfire smoke and cigarettes and _cinnamon_. 

They’ve turned into each other, bodies pressed flush-- hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Angel’s got one hand still carding through Billy’s hair, the other is holding onto Billy’s hand, thumb drifting carefully over his knuckles in his lap. 

It’s safe and warm and Billy doesn’t want to be anywhere else. 

“You’re tired,” There are lips hovering near his temple, and then Angel is tugging gently on Billy’s hair, “_Venga_, give me your keys. I’ll drive you home.”

He stands, and the spot beside him is cold and Billy _hates _it. Craves the warmth he left behind, and if Billy squeezes his hand maybe a little too tight when Angel offers it to help him to stand, Angel doesn’t say anything. 

Billy lets Angel guide him away from the firelight. 

He doesn’t let go of his hand. 

*** 

It happens in the passenger seat of Billy’s Camaro. 

And it happens _fast_. 

Angel’s on top of him before he can even _think_, fingers tangled in his hair, mouth against his, pressing Billy down down_ down_. 

His teeth are sharp against the skin at Billy’s throat. Billy wants them on his neck, his face, his _stomach_. His breath makes goosebumps ripple across Billy’s skin, and the things Angel does with his tongue are _too much too fast_. 

But it doesn’t go very far before Angel is pulling back and out of Billy’s space. Billy’s lips are already bruised and he goes to chase after him but Angel plants a hand on Billy’s chest and keeps him there. 

There’s a heavy spike of fear in Billy’s gut, and for a minute he’s terrified that he did something_ wrong_, but then Angel’s hand is cupping his face and tipping it back so he can look up at him. 

“You’re so _pretty, cariño_,” He breathes, and his eyes are dark and his voice is _wrecked_ with want and Billy is two seconds away from melting into a _puddle_ underneath him when Angel says, “But you gotta tell me first.” 

Angel makes his other hand into a fist and bobs it back and forth. He then taps his middle and index finger twice against his thumb. 

_Yes or no? _

Billy looks up at him, looks into those golden eyes that burn so bright it hurts and all Billy wants to do is tell him that he’s fascinated Billy from the moment they first met, that he’s _beautiful_, that he’s _everything_ Billy has ever wanted. 

He signs _yes_. 

That’s all Angel needs. 

With a sudden surge of motion, Angel connects him and Billy together again. It’s fast and rushed and when Billy gets his hands up Angel’s shirt his world _spins_. 

Angel make quick work of Billy’s belt, and Billy tries not to lose it too quickly but Angel makes it _hard_. He’s still kissing Billy as he pushes his way into his pants, and then he’s kissing Billy’s throat, breath _hot_ and teeth _sharp_. He growls, and Billy’s nerves _sing_, “Hands up, _baby_.” 

Billy shudders and does what he’s told. He grips the head rest and shimmies underneath Angel’s weight, attempting to spread his legs out as wide as he can in the cramped space of the car. Angel eases back to watch him, gives Billy a little more space to move. He hums, low and pleased and the noise makes heat pool low in his belly and Billy tries not to _squirm_, but his body is fucking _humming_ with nerves, with the _anticipation_. 

It doesn’t take long for Angel’s fingers to _burn_. He kisses Billy stupid while his fingers push and it hurts_, _but it’s_ good_ and Billy is helpless in how his back arches, how he clutches desperately at the headrest. 

Angel’s touch has Billy panting heavier by the minute, and he desperately tries not to go fucking _crazy_ while Angel works. His hips buck up without his permission, and he can feel Angel’s smile against his throat, sweet but _sharp_, electric but soothing. 

“You’re doing _so well_. So so well,” He praises, and his fingers twist in a way that jumpstarts Billy’s nerves into action, pleasure _zipping_ down his spine. He bucks helplessly into the sensation while Angel worship his neck with his tongue. He says, “_Te haré sentir bien, cariño_. You’re _so good_.” 

It’s not long before Billy’s eyes roll back and his mouth falls open, breathing loud in the quiet car. 

Billy wants to cry and whine and beg for more, for _anything_ Angel will give him. 

But he doesn’t. 

He’s quiet when he falls apart. 

His muscles go tight tight_ tight_, and then he _breaks_, panting hard, slumping back. His limbs are _useless_ \-- fingers still in a white knuckle grip on the headrest -- and his face is _numb._

Angel kisses him through it while Billy goes boneless, whispering praises in Spanish in his ear. It’s soft and sweet and everything Billy wants. 

After they’re done, Angel’s voice is husky and his smile is dazzling, “You’re _beautiful, cariño_.” 

Billy thinks he loves Angel’s smile. 

*** 

Angel walks with Billy and Max after school. 

Billy is seventeen and _nervous_ about the way Max is staring at him. She’s fourteen and her eyes are wide as she spots the lanky Hispanic boy following after Billy in a leather jacket and tight ripped jeans. 

Max starts signing the minute he comes up on her, setting the skateboard down at her feet -- where she unceremoniously dumped her backpack when she first saw him coming -- hands quick and abrupt in their motion, “_Who is he_?” 

They’ve gotten pretty good at this over the past months. Billy doesn’t even need to think before signing back. 

“He’s a friend.” He assures her. 

Billy prays that she’ll let it drop. He picks her backpack up off the ground where it lays at her feet, hefting it over his shoulder before continuing, hand movements just as quick as Max’s, “He lives a block away. He’s walking home with us today, _okay_?” 

Max looks like she’s about to protest, brow drawing together, lips pressing into a thin line -- Billy can tell that her hands are about to fly, just _dying_ to rip him a new one -- but before she gets the chance there’s an arm sliding around Billy’s shoulders, and a familiar “Who’s this, _cariño_?” in his ear. 

Angel is grinning -- Billy doesn’t even have to _look_, he can hear it in his voice -- and he knows he’s _gotta_ give Max a better reason when he sees her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. 

He signs, movement a bit jagged with his nerves, “His name is Angel. It’s just for today, I promise. _Please_?” 

He adds that at the end, because he feels like he should. 

Max stares at the two of them, and Billy’s sure that those blue eyes miss _nothing_ with how sharply they cut through him. Her gaze narrows, and Billy braces for the worst.

Then, to Billy’s utter and complete surprise, Max signs a quick _yes, okay_ and then she’s saying out loud, “I’m Max, Billy’s sister.” 

“I didn’t know you had a _sister_, Billy! You never tell me _anything_,” Angel’s lilt is heavy with tease, and he gives Billy _the most obvious_ wink he’s ever seen before he’s moving forward to shake Max’s hand, “My name is _Angel_. The pleasure is all mine, _chica_.” 

Max’s nose scrunches up in complete _suspicion_ at this strangely friendly display Angel’s putting on before her, and Billy tries not to grin too much. 

“Thank you.” He signs to her, after Angel had strolled off towards his block -- not without a wink and _too long_ hand touch to Billy’s lower back, that Billy has no doubt Max_ saw_ \-- and it’s just the two of them walking home again. 

“He’s _weird_.” Max says immediately, shooting a bewildered look off to where the Hispanic boy is walking away, and it catches Billy so off guard he almost _laughs_. 

He shrugs, grinning, a little stupid and a lot helpless, and there’s a long moment where Max gives him a _look_, but it’s fond. 

“You like him.” She says it aloud. It’s not a question. 

Billy swallows. He prays she understands. Understands how much admitting to it really_ means_. 

How dangerous it is to admit it at all. 

He nods. 

Max smiles, and something tight inside Billy shakes _loose_, “Okay.” 

They walk home together. 

*** 

Neil finds out. 

Billy comes home late with a hickey on his neck and a silver spike dangling from his left ear. He’s not _hiding it_ \-- he doesn’t _want_ to hide it, he swore to the boy with golden eyes and a silver feather he wouldn’t ever hide it, _no matter what_ \-- and Neil _sees_. 

Neil sees and he goes fucking _ballistic_. 

By the time the rage is done, by the time the fists stop coming, by the time Susan stops screaming Neil stop, _stop, _please, Neil, _please_\-- 

By the time Neil believes he’s beaten the _homosexual__ sickness_ out of his son, Billy’s face is purple and bruised and throbbing so bad Billy knows it’s never going to stop. Something _stings_ on his brow -- the parting gift of his father’s class ring -- and there’s blood weeping down into Billy’s swollen eyes. 

By the time Neil stops, Billy is holding on by a thread. 

With a look of pure disgust, like he can’t stand the sight of his own son, Neil lets go of Billy, and Billy _drops. _

His father strides past him and deeper into the house, towards the sound of Susan’s poorly hidden sniffling. Billy hears him say something to her, words spat out like a _curse_. He doesn’t remember the exact words, but he gets the gist. 

_Start packing your shit. We’re not staying here anymore. _

The footsteps recede. The bedroom door slams shut. 

Billy feels himself shattering into a million pieces on the kitchen floor. 

Then Max is there in front of him. 

Her blue eyes are wide and glassy on his face and she’s _shaking_ and Billy doesn’t think she can _stop_. 

He reaches for her, and she comes into his arms and she’s crying _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so so sorry_\-- and Billy can feel it. 

He feels the ache in his chest, the wicked, overwhelming _pressure_ in his throat that’s barely being held back, threatening to break past his lips and rip through the air of the dark kitchen. 

His chest _heaves_ with it. The need -- the desperate, horrible _need -- _to cry out. 

To sob, to scream, to talk, to _speak_\-- 

He _feels _it. 

He feels it and he _bites it down_. 

Silently, Billy holds Max tight while she cries in the middle of the kitchen. 

There’s nothing to clean up, after. 

*** 

When Neil Hargrove moves them to small town backwoods _shithole_ Hawkins, Indiana, Billy is seventeen and there’s a scar on his brow. 

He kinda _hates_ everything about it right away. 

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to yell at me on [tumblr!](https://kiwiibiird.tumblr.com/)


	2. before, two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind words and patience. It means the world
> 
> chapter warnings: just some angst. But King Steve can make that better, right?

“Are you nervous?” Max asks, and _Jesus_\-- it’s too early for this shit. 

Billy ignores her and continues to tear into one of the many cardboard boxes labeled _clothes_ on his bed, hunting for the warmest jacket he can find. 

“_Billy_.” Max says, and her voice is strangely _shrill_ this morning. He guesses it’s just her nerves shining through, in their own special way. Which Billy understands. 

It’s their first day at new schools, and he’s nervous too, but at least he’s not, like, _annoying_ about it. 

He eventually huffs, abandons his search of the boxes on his bed and looks at her. 

He’s met with bright blue, and he can feel her gaze scorch his skin. 

She signs, her motions gentle with earnest, “Talk to me.” 

“That’s poor word choice.” He signs back, face breaking out into a grin as Max swats him on the arm with a gasp and an indignant _that’s not funny_. 

“Don’t be a _dick_,” Max huffs, crossing her arms with a scowl, and her tone is a little heavy, “I feel like I haven’t _seen_ you.” 

She’s right. They haven’t had much time together, just the two of them, since the night Neil Hargrove announced they were moving. 

Susan has kept Max and herself out of the house at every opportunity-- with shopping and trips to the beach and visiting the neurotic social butterflies Susan calls friends to say goodbye. That left Billy alone to focus on packing, licking his wounds, and carefully slinking around the house under his father’s watchful eye. 

Neil -- whose bruised knuckles had healed over by the time they were all packed up and on the road -- has kept Billy on a tight leash since that night. There were no more privileges. No more varying curfews or begrudgingly ground out yeses to staying out late on the weekends. And Billy -- whose eyes still _ached_ and lip still _stung_ well after their encounter -- hadn’t been able to do anything other than exist quietly for _weeks_. 

Billy’s missed her, a little. 

“I know.” He signs, and the motion is softer. He steps up and ruffles her hair, just to get her to swat his hand away, but at least she’s smiling. 

“I’m good.” He promises, and while Max doesn’t look like she totally believes him, she’s at least not trying to argue with him about it, “Go get ready for school.”

Max nods and slips out of his room, and Billy turns back to continue on with his search. 

His entire life has been crammed into not even a dozen boxes. 

They sit, stoic and unmoving and all too permanent, around the tiny space he now calls his. 

Neil Hargrove moved them in to this dingy, cramped house in the middle of _nowhere_, and in Billy’s resentment -- the stupid, _stupid_ hope inside of him that says maybe he won’t be stuck here forever, maybe he’ll get the chance to _go home_ \-- he still hasn’t unpacked all of his things. 

It’s kind of like a slap to the face-- Billy realizing how _little_ he actually owns, how measly all of his possessions really are. It’s not even _twelve boxes_, and he fit his whole existence into them like it was _easy_, like it was nothing at all. 

And yet, despite that fact, he can’t help the burning pride in his stomach that at least he has a few things that no one can take away from him. At least he has a few things to call totally and rightfully his.

It’s not a lot, _but_. 

But it’s enough. 

He pulls his denim jacket out of the third box he goes digging through. It still smells like the night he got his ear pierced. 

The night his entire life fell into ruins. 

He was wearing it when Angel told him -- fingers gently holding an ice cube to Billy’s newly pierced ear, breath warm at the hollow of Billy’s throat while they lay, on a blanket Angel _borrowed_ from the boardwalk, under the pier together -- that he thought he liked boys more than girls. 

The whispered confession sounded _so loud_ in the silence under the boardwalk, far away from the music and dancing of the bonfires. Even the soothing lull of waves hitting the shore was drowned out by the stunning silence of it. 

Billy raises the jacket to his nose and breathes in. He smells bonfire smoke and cigarettes and the faintest trace of cinnamon on the collar. 

He pulls it on before he can think about it too long. 

*** 

It’s the first day of school of their brand new life in Hawkins, and it’s _fucking cold_. 

The wind chill pushes what would’ve been a relatively nice autumn day down well past freezing, and the clear, sunny sky is doing absolutely nothing to help warm things up. He’s shivering the minute he steps out of the house. He’s never felt so treacherously betrayed by the sun. 

He doesn’t know how Max can even manage in nothing but a flimsy hoodie, and he tells her as much when they get into Billy’s Camaro. 

She laughs at him. Calls him a _pussy_. 

If it were anyone else, they would be on the ground in seconds, blood pouring out of their nose with Billy on top of them throwing punches until he broke something. But because it’s _Max_, Billy just smiles, sharp and sweet, and signs a big obvious _fuck you_ in her face that she throws right back with her tongue stuck out at him like she’s _nine_. 

Billy drives these small town back roads fast -- partly because he hasn’t driven his car in weeks with Neil on his ass all the time, and partly because he _can_ \-- and blasts his music loud just for the hell of it. Max acts like she’s annoyed, but Billy knows she likes the music too. 

Some tune by The Rolling Stones is blaring out of his speakers while he pulls up to Hawkins Middle School in his Camaro. 

Max shoots him a fleeting smile before hopping out and disappearing into the crowd of middle schoolers. She walks away with her head held high, with a determination in her step that Billy is proud of. 

Billy peels out of the parking lot, much to the chagrin of the helicopter parents who don’t trust the bussing system enough to drop their kids off. A few horn blasts follow him out onto the road, and Billy turns up the music and feels like laughing. 

The Rolling Stones turns into something a little more bass-heavy while he drives. When he rolls into the high school parking lot, the Scorpions are screaming through his speakers. While he parks, Billy hears _more days to come, new places to go, I've got to leave, it's time for a show. _

Billy stares out the window at the most podunk looking high school he’s ever seen. 

He opens the car door. It’s cold, and Billy _hates_ it. 

Gritting his teeth, he steps out of the Camaro and heads inside. 

_Here I am. _

*** 

What Billy learns almost immediately on his arrival to Hawkins High School is no one has a problem with him not being able to talk, because they’re all more than happy to do the talking for him. 

He knows he’s being stared at the second he steps out of the Camaro-- he can feel the eyes of the prissy looking pinups he saw hanging in the parking lot on him. They go still as he passes, but the moment they think Billy gets out of earshot they start _giggling_ about as subtle as a pack of hyenas all the way into the building. 

Billy has no doubt that everyone will know he’s here by the end of second period. It’s a small school, and he’s guessing by the looks of it, these people just _love_ to talk. 

Secluded societies like Hawkins thrive on gossip, especially if it’s something good, like a new kid all the way from _California_. He’s reminded of the time he read _The Crucible_ when he was younger. Billy wonders, as he moves between classes to get to his locker, if they’ll have posters hung up on the bulletins about the next witch burning or if he’s going to have to ask around. 

He can feel people’s eyes on him. 

Billy walks with a decent amount of confidence -- he learned quick to walk with his head up, his gait easy, and “if anyone looks at you funny, _cariño_, just smile like you know the fucker’s secret. Everybody’s got one.” -- and in these halls, Billy feels like he’s parting the goddamn Red Sea. 

He’s a big mystery to everyone else. A clean slate they’re all just dying to get a good view of. 

It’s kind of exhilarating. They way these people pretend they weren’t just gawking when he looks, pretend they’re not subtly looking at his ass when he walks by. 

Billy’s a shark swimming through a school of minnows. All he has to do is send a sharp glance in any one direction, and these people scatter like they’re about it get _eaten_.

It's a kind of power he’s never been given before. 

And-- if he’s being honest? 

He really fucking_ likes it_. 

Back in California, Billy spent most of his time in school avoiding the big groups, the hordes of alpha males that roamed the halls in hunting parties, just _dying_ to get their hands on some lonely kid to beat the shit out of. 

Here, in Hawkins, it’s different. Billy doesn’t see any wolf packs-- doesn’t really see any _alpha males_, either. 

His presence must have upset some sort of hierarchy that this school has carefully built itself upon, because he’s not even spent maybe a minute at his locker before a brown-haired freckle face of a kid and a redhead with bouncy curls under his arm are hovering in his peripheral. 

Billy ignores them while he shoves all his stuff into his locker. He takes his time with it -- by which he means he absolutely goes slow on purpose -- just to see if they’ll get bored, just to see if they’ll go away. 

They don’t. 

Freckles gets the courage to say something when Billy’s finally slammed his locker door shut. He’s checking his schedule when the kid pipes up, “Hey, man. You’re _new_, right?” 

Billy looks up at him, and he doesn’t look anywhere near what Billy imagines is _top dog_, but maybe Billy’s gotta lower his expectations to the Hawkins’ standard. 

He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

“You looking for someone to show you around?” The kid asks, and he’s got this shit-eating grin on, like he’s _nervous_. And, _yeah_, this kid is definitely more like a follower. Billy can tell he’s looking for someone powerful to scurry behind. 

“We’ve been around the block a few times,” Freckles says, exchanging a glance with the bouncy redhead, who unenthusiastically pops her gum, “We can show you the ropes, if you like.” 

Staring at these two for a long moment, it strikes Billy with a sudden, surprising amount of clarity that he might not have wanted to deal with the small town hierarchy bullshit, but it certainly wants to deal with _him_. 

Before, Billy was just planning to get by in this new school with the shitty hand he’s been dealt. He didn’t need any more _ruler of the school bullshit_ to add on top of it. It just wasn’t his thing. 

Now? Well. 

He doesn’t really have a choice, so--

He might as well enjoy the ride, right? 

Billy passes his schedule over to Freckles, who quickly introduces himself as Tommy -- the redhead’s name is _Carol_ \-- and lets them lead the way. 

Billy thinks the whole situation is kind of hilarious. 

Acting like you know everyone’s secret let him skate by without a beating in California. 

Here, in Hawkins-- it’s like someone is about to get _dethroned_. 

*** 

His newly given power nearly falls to pieces in AP physics. 

He’s been careful not to break it all day. Tommy and Carol have been leading him around like some sort of kingpin-- chattering about how _Cheryl’s_ bitching about _Matt_ and Carol’s pretty sure _Matt’s_ fucking _Lucy_ and Tommy’s got a hookup on _the best shit_ if Billy’s ever looking to get _real fucked up_. Both of them are all more than willing to let him take it all in in silence. 

Tommy finds out his name through their shared history class. When the balding man in front of the chalkboard in a poorly pressed dress shirt barks out, “William Hargrove!” all Billy has to do is throw up a lazy hand without saying a word. 

“Hey, William.” Tommy says, “You’ve got AP physics next period, right?”

The name sounds _greasy_ on Tommy’s tongue, and Billy tries his best not to gag at the sound. 

_William_ is not what he wants to be called -- it’s always, _always_ been _Billy_ \-- but he’s not about to use sign language to correct anyone. 

He’s got a clean slate here, and not getting labeled as the _deaf and dumb_ kid is number one on his priority list. He’ll just write _Billy Hargrove_ on his papers and hope his teachers are smart enough to catch on. 

Until then, William Hargrove it is. 

Then the AP physics teacher almost fucks it all up. 

It starts out fine. She welcomes them to the class. She hands out the syllabus, tells them to get it signed and bring it back tomorrow. It’s a _breeze_. 

Then she fucking says, “Alright, ice breaker time.” 

Billy goes very, very still. 

When she’s met with a couple of groans from the class, she adjusts her glasses and gives them a smile, “I know, I know. I’m old fashioned. Suck it up. We’ll go by rows. Tell me your name or a nickname you’d prefer, your favorite color, and your favorite animal. I’ll go first. My name is Ms. Brown, my favorite color is green, and my favorite animal is a bunny rabbit. Yes, I said _bunny rabbit_. You’re allowed to laugh! Ms. Thompson, you can go next.” 

And she’s gotta be fucking kidding. 

But then Tammy Thompson is talking about how her favorite color is pink and her favorite animal is a horse and Billy realizes with an unbridled amount of panic shooting straight through his gut that she’s _not fucking kidding_. 

There are only two tables ahead of him. There’s no chance he can get up and leave without causing a scene. 

He doesn’t have time. _He doesn’t have time_. 

Billy feels like he’s going to throw up. 

Because-- that’s just his luck, isn’t it? He finally gets somewhere he wants to be, a place where no one can touch him, no one can hurt him because _he’s_ the one with the power, because _Billy’s_ the one on top. 

And it’s about to get ripped right out of his hands. 

Then the kid next to him is saying, “My name is Jonathan Byers. Uhm, my favorite color is blue. I don’t really have a favorite animal. My dog, Chester? I guess.” 

Then they’re all looking at Billy. 

And, fuck, he doesn’t know what to _do_. 

“Your turn.” Ms. Brown reminds him with a kind smile, and Billy feels his stomach _drop_. 

His heart pounds. His ears _ring_. 

Billy doesn’t know what to do, so, he does what he knows. 

He turns his gaze down and stays quiet. 

The silence stretches on for what feels like years. The eyes on him start to _burn_. 

Billy keeps his mouth shut. 

Eventually, Ms. Brown gives up. She sighs, but it’s not too offended, a bit playful sounding, “Fine. Don’t play my fun ice breaker game. I’m not offended or anything. Keep going, guys.” 

When Billy looks up, Ms. Brown raises an eyebrow at him, expectant. 

He just shrugs and shoots her a sweet sweet smile. 

The rest of the period goes by without incident. 

*** 

Billy hears all about _Steve Harrington_ at lunch. 

“Harrington used to run this joint,” Tommy says over the noise of the cafeteria. They’re sitting at the _cool kids table_ with a couple of other people that Billy didn’t bother to learn the names of, and Billy’s _bored_.

Tommy’s voice is a little bitter and his eyes are a little hard when he says, “He’s nothing now.”

When all Billy does is raise an eyebrow in question, Tommy elaborates further, “Steve was like, _top dog_, y’know? Like, he threw the _best_ fucking parties, right? He knew how to get the best fucking weed, knew how to get all the best pussy--,” 

“Or the best _dick_\--,” Carol starts to add. 

“--and now he’s head over fucking heels for miss Nancy _oh so perfect_ Wheeler and he turned into a real dickhead.” Tommy finishes while he shoves at Carol’s shoulder, who snorts indelicately while she laughs. 

The whole thing sounds _mean_ coming out of Tommy’s mouth, and it’s poorly hidden in his tone that he and Steve Harrington must have a _history_. 

But, _damn_, does it catch Billy’s attention. 

From the way Tommy describes him, Billy’s picturing Steve Harrington as a real _douchebag_. 

The kind of guy that corners you in the courtyard with his friends and asks if your deaf and dumb. The kind of guy that slams your head against the concrete after you throw one punch. The kind of guy that pins you down and spits in your face and calls you a _mutey bitch_ while his friends laugh and laugh and laugh. 

He’s picturing someone big, someone _ugly_. 

The kind of guy that deserves to get knocked_ down_ a fucking peg. 

Maybe it’s the new power getting to his head, or maybe it’s just proof of how antagonistic and fucked up Billy is inside, but, _now_? 

Now all Billy wants to do is meet _King Steve_. 

He hunts for him in the halls. Billy prowls around in between classes like a goddamn _bloodhound_ on the scent. He’s looking for a broad shouldered guy, probably a football or a basketball player. He scans for someone who’s got a whole little parade of people following after him all the time, someone who looks at you like you’re nothing and laughs in your face about it. 

Billy’s pretty sure he scares a few sophomores shitless in his search, but other than that, there’s _nothing_. 

All he keeps hearing about is himself. 

William Hargrove, the new kid from California. 

William Hargrove, I heard he’s a real looker. Do you think William Hargrove likes to sleep around? I heard William Hargrove’s already got a hookup on the good shit. Do you think William Hargrove will be at Tina’s party on Halloween? Damn, I’d hate to get on William Hargrove’s bad side. _William Hargrove this_ and _William Hargrove that_ and Billy kinda _hates_ his own name by the end of the day.

His name is on everyone’s tongue so much, it’s like Steve Harrington doesn’t even _exist_. He’s a little frustrated when he comes up empty at the end of the day. 

But then the bell is ringing, and Billy has to go pick up Max and go back home and he didn’t get to meet King Steve and it _sucks_. 

He leaves, irritated and a little bit exhausted, and tucks the thought of Steve Harrington away for another time. 

It’s still cold outside and Billy still hates it. 

***

When he gets home that night, Billy quietly goes about the chores that are expected of him now. He helps Susan with the cooking, he sets the table, and -- after a tense family dinner where Susan chittered about the weather and the food and Max’s first day in a new school and _on and on and on_ \-- he does the dishes and puts them away after. 

Billy thinks he’s done. He starts to sneak off to his room without anyone noticing. 

His father has other plans. 

Instead of hiding out in his room like he was hoping, for the next two hours, Billy moves the furniture around the house to Susan’s liking. 

Billy always thought Susan had always been a bit-- well, a bit _much_. 

She’s like the helicopter parent he never had. 

While he drags furniture around, Susan flits about the room, adjusting picture frames and switching around knick knacks on the mantle and tables, biting her nails while she hovers like some sort of anxious hummingbird, always a little _too close_ in Billy’s space while he’s trying to move the heavier furniture-- his feet almost slip out from underneath him while he’s moving the couch to avoid stepping on her foot. 

And all the while she talks about everything and nothing all at once.

It’s a never ending flow of noise. Susan just goes on and on and on so much Billy doesn’t even know where she _keeps_ all that stuff. He thinks, while he starts to move the bedroom around, that her head gets so cluttered she’s gotta clear it all out by talking so it’ll be empty again. 

It’s so different from the way Billy operates that it kind of _scares_ him.

To each terrible coping mechanism their own, he supposes. 

While Susan talks and talks and talks, Billy rearranges the master bedroom three times and the living room twice. 

Eventually, he manages to slip into his room. Behind a closed door, in the safety of his own space, Billy moves all of the boxes to the floor, peels his denim jacket off and curls into bed with it. He knows it’s stupid and it’s clingy and it feels _way _too desperate, but he can’t help how he clutches it to his chest under the covers, curling around it like it’s the only thing keeping him together. 

In the dark, Billy tries not to think about Angel waiting for him by his locker at school, only for no one to show. Tries not to think about Angel walking home alone, tries not to think of Angel sitting by himself at the bonfires. 

He ignores the bitter taste in his mouth as he thinks about Angel waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for Billy to come back. Bile rises to the back of his throat as Angel realizes Billy’s gone for good, as he realizes that _he left without telling Angel_ and he’s _never coming back_. 

He tries to ignore the way his heart sinks when Angel moves on. When Angel doesn’t wait anymore, when he goes back talking in rapid Spanish to the girls across the way and flirting with sharp teeth that glint in the firelight. When Angel starts holding _Mía’s_ hand, and kissing _Mía’s neck and_\-- 

He doesn’t think about when Angel forgets him. 

Instead, he holds the jacket a little tighter, and he sleeps. 

*** 

Billy dreams he’s at the beach. 

The sun is hot in California and the wind feels nice and his mom is there. It’s just the two of them, sitting side by side in the sand while the water gently rushes and recedes in a steady rhythm in front of their feet. It’s _warm_ and _sweet_ and everything Billy _misses so desperately_.

He’s crying. 

Tears drip down his face while his mother cards her fingers through his hair, while she shushes him and tilts his head to look up at her. 

Her face is shrouded by the shadow of the sun. It frames her head like a halo. Her voice is barely a whisper, “What’s wrong, baby?” 

_I miss you_, he wants to say. 

He doesn’t. 

“_Shh_, baby. It’s okay. It’s okay.” She wraps Billy up in her arms and rocks him.

The water pushes farther up the beach, and when it washes over their feet, it’s _freezing_. 

_I want you to come back home_, he wants to scream. 

He can’t. 

His mother holds him while he shakes apart. She’s never been one to shy away from her son, not even when he hides his face in the crook of her neck and holds so tight he knows he must be leaving bruises and cries and breaks open and apart.

A wave comes _fast_, and suddenly the two of them are being submerged with water. 

Billy feels his mother disintegrate into foam when the water hits. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels her get smaller and smaller and smaller in his hold until he opens them and there’s nothing but him and the ocean. 

_Please come back_, he begs.

She won’t. 

*** 

In the morning he pulls on the denim jacket without a second thought. 

It doesn’t smell like cinnamon anymore. 

*** 

Max is moody as _fuck_ today. 

When he goes to get her up for school, she practically hisses at him like a goddamn _cat_. He’s met with a slammed door in his face before he can even ask. 

It’s a little off-putting, but it’s not like she hasn’t been in a bad mood before. She’s a teenager now, and it’s not like _Billy_ wasn’t a complete mess of hormones and emotions at fourteen. It doesn’t bother him. 

It’s fine. 

At breakfast, she’s stomping around the kitchen to get cereal with the biggest scowl on her face Billy’s ever seen. Even _Neil_ comments on it on his way out the door for work with a patronizing, “Morning, _sunshine_.” 

“Everything okay?” He tries carefully, once it’s just the two of them. 

“I’m fine, Billy.” is all Max gives him. 

They sit in an uncomfortable silence while they eat. Until, “The first day of school was just--“ 

She doesn’t finish. 

“Was just..?” Billy prompts her, setting down his spoon. 

“_Weird_!” Max blurts, throwing her hands up in the air, “I wasn’t even there for, like, _five minutes_ and everyone was _staring_ at me and then these four boys were like, _really staring_ and I don’t wanna deal with those stalkers again and I hate that we had to move here and this whole thing just fucking_ sucks_.” 

She groans and pushes out of her seat with a frustrated sounding “Let’s just _go_.” 

She stomps out of the kitchen, leaving Billy there to finish his cereal in silence. 

“I’m sorry.” He tells her, but Max isn’t there. 

***

Her mood doesn’t improve. 

Billy thinks it’s better when they get in the car, that maybe she got over it and they can move past this strange tension that’s been building all morning. 

He’s wrong. 

Billy goes to turn the stereo on once their on the road, and Max _slaps his hand away from the knob_. 

When they get to the middle school, Billy parks in the middle of the drop off zone and turns towards her. Helicopter parents be damned. 

She goes to open the door and Billy locks it. She tries it again and he locks the door again. She rounds on him with white fire in her eyes, “What the fuck, Billy?” 

“Are we gonna talk about it?” He asks. 

“Talk about what?” The snark is heavy in her tone. When all he does is raise his eyebrows in question, she repeats louder, like Billy’s _deaf_, “_Talk about what_?” 

“The fact that you’ve been acting like a _brat_ all morning.” Billy’s motion is sharp with irritation. The line of cars behind them is getting longer. The frazzled looking mother in his rearview mirror looks like she’s about to pitch a _fit_. 

“I am not acting like a brat!” 

Billy takes a breath, tries to stay calm. He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches before continuing, “Yes, you _are_.” 

Max throws her hands up in the air and all but snarls, “I already told you my problem! You’re just not _listening_.” 

“_Me_?” Billy wants to laugh in her face. He bares his teeth instead, “All I ever do is listen to you _bitch_, if you hadn’t noticed. You’re the only person I can talk to--,” 

“And whose fucking_ fault _is that?!” Max all but screams at him. 

Silence falls heavy between them. 

Max is looking at him with wide eyes, and Billy can see it in her face that she knows she fucked up. She doesn’t say anything, but Billy’s not about to let that go. She started this, and there’s no turning back now. 

“It’s okay. You can say it,” The motion is jagged, and he feels something _wicked_ bloom in his chest, “I’m the fuckup, right? It’s all my fault, right Max?”

“That’s not what I--,” She tries, but it dies on her tongue, because they both know that’s _exactly_ what she meant. 

“It’s okay, Max, go ahead and say it. It’s my fault our lives are ruined, right? Say it’s my fault. Go ahead and fucking_ say it_.” The motion is vicious and mean and Billy _knows_ that he shouldn’t be doing this, he _knows_ it’s not fair to her but he’s _angry_ and he doesn’t_ care_. 

Max shakes her head, eyes wide and blue and _sorry_. 

“_Say it_.” Billy demands. 

The silence stretches on. 

“It’s your fault.” Max whispers. She doesn’t look at Billy when she says it. 

Max gathers her things and shoves out of the Camaro with a shaky sounding, “I’ll skate home today.” 

And then she’s_ gone_. 

Billy peels out of the parking lot. A few horn blasts follow him out onto the road. 

He slams the knob of the stereo on and feels like screaming. 

*** 

AP Physics is officially Billy’s least favorite class. 

Ms. Brown keeps trying. She calls on Billy nearly every five minutes, attempting to get him to _participate_ and be an _active member _in class. And every time, Billy just looks at her and shrugs. He doesn’t say goddamned thing. 

That doesn’t seem to discourage her, though, which is annoying. Billy still feels a little nauseous from this morning with Max and he really just wants to be left_ alone_.

Ms. Brown eventually leaves him alone after she and Billy have a staring contest that nearly lasts a whole minute when she asks him for the equation of the universal gravitational constant. 

He knows the answer, but he’s not _saying it_. And it feels like Ms. Brown must know that too, because she won’t _stop staring_. It’s _infuriating_. 

Luckily, Billy’s is a master at the silence game, so she’s the one that breaks first, “Okay, why doesn’t someone else tell me the equation? Since our resident clam shell doesn’t want to.” 

That earns a few laughs from his classmates. Billy can easily grin and shrug those off, no big deal. 

Then the guy next to him -- Jonathan Byers -- _scoffs_. 

Billy feels his jaw wind tight tight_ tight_. 

He keeps the smile up even though he feels three seconds away from swinging. He fixes his gaze on Jonathan the second the attention drops away from him. 

Sitting there, adamantly ignoring him, is this scrawny looking loner of a kid that Billy is positive he could break in half given the chance. His hair is sandy blond and when he glances at Billy, he’s got these dull brown eyes that look at Billy for only a moment -- give him the most bored once over he’s ever seen -- before turning forward again, like Billy’s not even _worth _the effort. 

Something sharp and jagged inside of him shakes _loose_. 

He wants to snarl in Jonathan’s face. He wants to grab the guy by the shirt and bring him nose to nose, wants to grab him by the chin and make it so he _has_ to look at Billy and _nowhere else_. He wants to spit the words out and make sure Jonathan _tastes them_. 

_Fuck off. I don’t have to prove anything to you. _

Instead, Billy just grins, wicked and bright and all too easy. Instead, he _winks_, acts like he knows Jonathan _fucking_ Byers’ secret. 

Everybody’s got one. 

Jonathan’s eyes get wide. He actually has the nerve to look _offended_ before he looks away from Billy and Billy’s feels his grin turn Cheshire. 

He shoves a little too hard out of his seat when the bell rings. 

*** 

Billy is ready to crawl out of his skin. 

He can’t sit still, he keeps jerking and twitching, like some sort of caged animal. He can feel the burn of something inside of him build and build and_ build_. By the time gym class rolls around he feels like he’s going to _explode_. 

That’s why he shoves past Tommy in the locker room hard enough to send the kid rocking back into the lockers with a squawked out, “_Hey_!” 

Even someone as stupid as Tommy knows better to try and pick a fight with Billy right now, when he’s radiating aggression and heat. So when he gets Tommy by the front of the shirt, shoves him against the lockers and keeps him there, Tommy is smart enough to go very, very still. 

Billy needs to get whatever is building inside of him out of his system. And right now? Tommy’s _face_ is looking like the most appealing and most available option. 

Tommy may not be smart, but he is clever. Clever enough to redirect Billy’s thinly hidden belligerence towards something other than himself. 

Something so much _better_. 

“Hargrove, _dude_,” he starts out shaky, but then he plasters on that nervous, shit-eating grin of his and claps Billy on the shoulder, like Billy isn’t three seconds from caving Tommy’s nose in, “_That’s_ the kind of attitude that we need to kick Harrington’s_ ass_ on the court today.” 

A switch flips inside of Billy’s head. 

_Shit_. How could he have forgotten about _Harrington_? 

Billy drops Tommy and very nearly rushes to change, something burning bright inside of him now. 

It’s just what he needs. The perfect way to blow off steam. 

Knocking King Steve_ down _a fucking peg. 

Billy can feel that primal instinct -- fucked up and twisted around as it is -- inside of him, rise just under the surface. He feels it bleed through his skin as he walks out onto the court. And, god, does he _feel _it. It’s vicious and sudden and comes with a rush of adrenaline, like his body is getting ready to run or fight for a long time. It pools at the base of his skull, buzzing saccharine and bright and Billy _loves it_. 

Harrington’s name gets called while they’re picking teams, and Billy finally, _finally_ gets a good look at this _King Steve_ everyone’s been telling him so much about. 

Billy was expecting someone _big_, someone _ugly_. 

That’s not what he sees. 

What he sees is a tall, but not lanky, white kid -- whose sort of _built_, actually, in his own wiry sort of way -- with the softest looking hair Billy has ever seen. He can tell there must be some time and effort put into it because no one can have it _that _good without at least some sort of product.

He’s not a bad looker, either. He’s got these pretty pink lips that are set into a firm line, and Billy’s hoping he’ll get to hear his voice sooner rather than later. It helps that his eyes are pretty too-- brown but not dull. There’s something bright hiding in them that Billy wants to wipe the dust off of and _see_. 

He’s certainly not the ugly pushover Billy was looking to antagonize and break apart, but he’s so hyped up on the building heat inside of him he’ll take whatever he can get at this point. 

It’s been a long time since he’s felt like this, so _desperate_ to tear out of his own skin and into someone else’s. And when Billy and Steve Harrington get put on opposing teams, Billy feels that part of him ready to scratch and bite and scream come _alive_. 

Steve isn’t looking at Billy yet. Doesn’t seem to have noticed him. That’s fine. Billy’s pretty good at _making_ people notice. 

Harrington starts out with the ball. Billy shoves Tommy out of the way so he can guard him. 

Steve dribbles up, eyes darting everywhere as he takes it all in. 

Everywhere except Billy, that is. And Billy _can’t_ have _that_. 

The coach blows the whistle, and everything slows, just for a moment, and then _moves_. 

Steve tries to fake right and go left. Billy -- who’s played rough and tumble basketball in the streets of California since he was _ten_ \-- sees the ploy a mile away. He blocks Steve like a brick wall. 

It’s jarring enough that it almost knocks Steve right off his feet, sends him stumbling and gives Billy enough time to easily swipe the ball and takes it down the hoop for a basket. Guy shouldn’t have been moving his feet so much. 

Billy is greeted with a few hoots from his teammates and another whistle blast to keep the game rolling while he jogs back down the court. When he looks, Steve’s brown eyes are staring back at him. There’s a little crease in his brow, like he’s just noticing Billy for the first time. Something funny twists on Steve’s face the longer he looks. There’s a question in his gaze. One that Billy is surprised Harrington hasn’t been hearing the answer to all day. 

_Who’s that guy?_ Those brown eyes ask. 

_William Hargrove_, answers the world, _the new kid from California. _

Billy grins back at him, wicked and bright and burning. 

_Now_ he’s got King Steve’s attention. 

The game goes on. It’s almost laughable how easily Billy can just push Steve around. The kid’s not a very good basketball player, that much is obvious. 

Steve is starting to get frustrated the more Billy shoves him. There are words Billy wants to say resting right on the tip of his tongue. It makes his fingers twitch impulsively to sign it out, to get Steve more worked up, more of the picture of _King Steve_ he wants to see so _badly_.

_Harrington, right?_ He wants to say. _I heard you used to run this school. That true? King Steve, they used to call you, huh? Then you turned _bitch_. _

They’re both sweaty and here, right up against Steve while he plays defense, with the warmth of their bodies _this close_, Billy’s never had so much _fun_. 

Steve scowls as he unsuccessfully tries to get around Billy’s defense. Billy takes the opportunity to shove him and swat the ball out of Steve’s hand and pass it to someone else. 

The whistle blows. Another point for the skins. 

“What the _hell_, man?” Steve hisses at him. His voice is a little lower than Billy originally thought it would be. 

Billy just shrugs. He’s unable to keep the grin off his face, though. Steve’s scowl deepens, and Billy eats that shit _up_. 

“It’s just a game,” Steve huffs, swiping the mess of sweaty hair out of his face. Billy wants to reach out and _touch_, “Quit being so _pushy_.” 

And, _shit. _Billy didn’t realize _King Steve_ was a _brat_. 

That almost makes it _better_.

It gets something going inside of him, something taunting and chittering for _confrontation_. 

They get ready for the next round. Billy gets up in Steve’s space, hovering close, just to make sure his breath ghosts on the shell of Steve’s ear. 

Steve wants pushy? Billy’ll show him _pushy_. 

The whistle blows, and Billy doesn’t even hesitate. He just _goes_. 

Billy rams Harrington’s shoulder, _hard_. Steve may have some height on him, but Billy’s _stronger_ and it’s easy to make Steve fall flat on his ass. When he gets the ball, Billy goes under the leg with it and sinks a basket. Like it’s easy, like it’s nothing at all. 

The whistle blows, and Billy walks back over to help Steve back up, who’s still laying on the ground like some sort of _drama queen_. 

Steve hesitates to take his hand, but does take it in the end. His hand is warm in Billy’s, and Billy was going to pull him up -- really, he was totally about to demonstrate how good he is at _sportsmanship_ \-- but he only gets about halfway there. 

What happens next stops Billy dead. Makes him freeze, his whole body locking up. He doesn’t think he could move even if he _tried_.

Steve’s eyes catch in the sunlight filtering through the windows when Billy lifts him just right. 

In the sunlight, Steve’s eyes turn into honey, annoyed and _golden_. 

And that’s just not fair.

Billy had to leave California because he loved a boy with golden eyes too much. Now he’s here, thousands of miles away from the place where he grew up, millions of hours away from his home. And _yet_\-- even all the way in small town backwoods _shithole_ Hawkins, Indiana, the same _goddamn eyes_ are staring back at him. 

And that’s just not _fucking fair_. 

It takes Billy’s breath away, is what it does. It sucks all the fight right out of him, soothing that angry beast that lives behind his ribs from an unbearable roar to a dull thrum. It must show in his face, because those sweet, _sweet_ honey eyes go from careful to confused to _suspicious_ all at once, and Billy is forcefully reminded of where he is and what he’s doing. 

A little stunned, he _drops Steve_ back down to the floor. He steps over top Steve and back out onto the court on shaky legs and on even shakier thoughts, and tries not to think about Steve watching as he retreats. 

The whistle blows. The game is _over_. 

Billy doesn’t look back as he all but books it for the locker room, because he knows that if he does, King Steve’s eyes will _burn _him. 

He doesn’t look back. 

Instead, Billy _runs away_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to yell at me on [tumblr!](https://kiwiibiird.tumblr.com/)


	3. before, three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life is not so kind, and forces these things to be set to the side. Luckily, life is kinder now. Thank you for waiting for me 
> 
> chapter warnings: sibling fight, Steve Trying His Best, Billy starting to think it’s actually okay to open up

The water in the showers is _scalding_. 

After he left Steve behind on the basketball court -- after he _ran away_, reminds his brain helpfully -- Billy made a hasty retreat to the locker room showers. He didn’t wait, just turned the handle and stepped under the stream. 

The water had been a sharp wakeup call. The heat of it was enough to jumpstart his nerves out of their stupor. His skin bloomed with red goosebumps while he rid himself of sweat and the sticky residue of Steve’s stare he could still feel clinging to his skin. Billy scrubbed himself until he felt raw, and even then, it wasn’t enough.

As steam curls dreamily in the air around him, Billy takes one steadying breath after another. It gets a little easier each time, until eventually the slow drag of air in and out of his lungs is even.

Billy’s always felt more comfortable when he’s under the water in the shower. It’s been that way since he was a kid. The real world doesn’t seem to hurt so much when he’s here, safely tucked away under the warm spray. It clears his head, gives him time to think, if nothing else. 

The slight bite of pain that comes with the hot water is also enough to shake him from whatever spell Steve put him under.

King Steve and his goddamn eyes. 

Or not. 

Maybe he’s still entranced, because Billy’s about to turn off the shower and go get changed when coming into the steam of the showers like the best dream Billy’s ever had is none other than Steve Harrington himself. 

And Billy-- Billy stops short. He stalls out, can’t bring himself to move. 

Because, _fuck_, Steve Harrington is _pretty_. 

With the quick look he gets before he puts his head down, he catches a glimpse of a lean torso, dotted here and there with soft moles. A surprisingly toned stomach, in a sweet sort of way that has Billy twitching to ghost his fingers over. He briefly gets sight of fair skin stretched over a hip bone, and Billy has the sudden, strong urge to drop down onto his knees and kiss that spot. 

He swallows. Stops that train of thought right there.

Steve comes in and Billy looks away. He can’t risk falling deeper into the trance he just so ungracefully shook himself from with hot water and shitty school soap. He keeps his head down, even as he sees -- _feels_, more than sees, really -- Steve grind to a halt in his peripheral, like he’s just realizing Billy is there. He keeps his head down when Steve, who’s oddly hesitant in his motion, steps up to the shower beside him and turns it on. 

He chances a glance only when Steve puts something on the lip of the shower-- two tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Billy can’t quite keep the smile off his face. 

Not only is Steve a pretty boy, but he’s a pretty boy with _standards_. 

Billy thinks he kinda likes that. 

Steve sees the smile. He glances between the bottles he just set down and back at Billy, and his face gets hot, nose scrunching up in defense before he huffs and starts washing away the gym class sweat. Billy can see the bloom of the blush travel down his neck. He bets the skin there is warm. He wants to reach out, wants to _touch_.

Steve’s shoulders are drawn up, and his entire body is screaming defense. Billy wants to soothe the rigid line of Steve’s shoulders, wants them to be loose and relaxed and comfortable. 

What Billy really wants is to feel that body shudder and shake while he slides his hands up those thighs, slow and slippery under the spray of the shower. He wants to lick a hot stripe across that sweet stomach, he wants to graze his teeth over sensitive skin. He wants to leave a mark, big and obvious and purple, on that hip bone to be remembered by. He wants to feel hands sink into his hair and tug just shy of too hard until he makes his way lower and he just _wants_. 

Billy’s starting to want a lot. 

Instead of doing anything he wants to, Billy goes back to washing soap out of his hair that isn’t there, trying and failing to not smile like a fool. 

There’s a long moment between them where he can feel Steve’s eyes on him -- Billy doesn’t _dare_ look -- until Steve eventually huffs and goes about washing his hair, the shampoo painting brown locks with streaks of white bubbles. 

“You were going pretty hard out there,” Steve says after a beat, rinsing the suds away, and when Billy looks up he has to try desperately not to drown in _honey_. Steve asks, “Where’d you learn to play?” 

Billy’s fingers twitch with the answer. 

It would be so easy to just sign it, but Steve wouldn’t understand and Billy doesn’t want to deal with the whole mess that would follow. He almost has to physically restrain himself from doing it. 

He wonders, suddenly, what Steve would do. He wonders what Steve would say if Billy were to give him his answer, _right now_. He doesn’t think Steve would react that badly -- Billy’s positive he could kick Steve Harrington’s ass if it came down to it. Steve may be taller, but Billy is certainly stronger -- but, _still_. 

Better not to risk everything on the off chance that Steve is actually a good person. 

Billy doesn’t say anything. 

The silence continues. Steve raises an eyebrow, “What, is it some big secret or something?” then a quick flash of a smile peaks through. It’s a little lopsided, “You learn from, I dunno, the secret basketball_ masters_?” 

The hint of humor there is wry. Steve’s eyes are bright though, hopeful, like he’s trying his best to break the building awkwardness between them, “That why you're all hush hush? Can’t reveal any of their amazing basketball techniques?” 

Billy wants to laugh at the joke. He wants to see Steve smile like that always. 

Instead, he gives Steve a fleeting smile, shrugging nonchalantly -- like a real tough guy, not the scared little bitch he feels like inside -- and keeps his mouth shut. He prays it’s enough. 

The moment stretches on. Billy watches as Steve’s smile falters, just a bit, and his brow pinches together in confusion. There’s a moment -- a terrible, _terrible_ moment -- where Billy sees something like recognition in his eyes. Like Steve is _noticing_ something for the first time, and Billy’s blood runs cold. 

Steve opens his mouth, and Billy’s prepping to have his whole world knocked out of balance. He’s standing at the edge of something tall-- so, so incredibly tall. All it would take is one big push from Steve to have him falling. Billy braces for the impact, jaw wound tight. 

Thankfully, Steve doesn’t manage to get it out before Tommy is ruining everything. 

“Way to kick ass, Hargrove!” Tommy walks into the steam, the other boys from the court following at his heels. He slaps on the shower across from Billy, and the steam curling fantasy is dispersed as the other guys start up an obnoxious amount of chatter in the small space of the showers. 

The tension in the air is broken as Tommy pats Billy on the shoulder, grin just this side of manic, and Billy’s able to shake the fear that was building in his chest away. 

Tommy spares Steve only a quick glance before snarking, “Way to _eat ass_, Harrington.” 

The other guys crack up and Tommy cackles at his own joke, the sound bouncing off the walls. Billy is, unsurprisingly, reminded that Tommy is a pretty big asshole. 

The brightness in Steve’s eyes fades, replacing itself with something dull and guarded. His smile is tight around the eyes, “Thanks, Tommy.” 

Tommy ignores him. All his focus turns to Billy, who’s feeling far too exposed, far too _noticed_, and he hates it. 

Tommy keeps talking, “Listen, there’s a party happening on Halloween, over at Tina’s. Am I gonna see you there?” 

Billy does not want to see Tommy over at Tina’s party on Halloween. He doesn’t even want to _go_\-- and with how tight a leash Neil’s got on him these days, he doesn’t even entertain the possibility. 

Billy shrugs easily, hoping his expression is vague enough to be considered a _maybe_. He tries to put on his usual facade -- bright and sharp with that hard edged confidence -- but it’s shaky at best. Tommy doesn’t seem to notice. 

King Steve, however. 

Billy can feel Steve looking at him. He’s hyper aware of those eyes, like nothing else in the world ever mattered more. He doesn’t _dare_ risk looking. If he does, Billy thinks he might melt and get washed down the shower drain. 

“Awesome,” Tommy must take it as a yes. He finishes up quick enough in the showers, leaving with a, “I’ll see you around, Hargrove!” called over his shoulder. 

The rest of the guys start to trickle out. Soon it’s just the two of them again, lingering. 

He should have waved or something. Should have done something that made it seem like he cared more about what Tommy said. 

He didn’t. He _doesn’t_. Instead, he looks at Steve. 

Steve’s hair is plastered to his forehead, and when he absentmindedly sweeps his fingers through it to get it out of his face, it sticks out every which way, then slowly flattens back down again. He watches Billy with this thoughtful look on his face, a little crease forming in between his brow.

Billy raises his eyebrows in a way he desperately hopes is noncommittal-- the universal sign for _what is it? _

Steve’s still staring at him, and, fuck, that look is all too familiar. 

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Steve asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s a statement, a hard cold fact that makes Billy’s blood freeze in his veins. 

He’s sure Steve’s not the first person to notice how Billy never talks. It’s kind of _obvious_. Steve is, however, the first person in Hawkins to actually say anything to him about it out loud. That in itself is so jarring Billy has to take a physical step back from the question. 

He turns off the spigot and wipes the water out of his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Steve. He even turns his back on Steve entirely to grab his towel and start to dry himself off. When Billy turns back around, towel wrapped around his waist, Steve is still watching him. 

Something must show on his face, because then Steve’s is adding quickly, “I just noticed you didn’t answer Tommy, is all,” he shrugs, the movement only slightly aborted. But a grin, all lopsided and easy, begins to grow after a moment, “I mean, unless you were ignoring him on purpose. Then I totally get it. Tommy’s kind of an asshole.” 

Billy can’t help but grin, too. Because, _yeah_, Tommy is kind of an _asshole_\-- but also because it’s easy. Because Steve smiled at him, and it’s just so easy to smile back. 

There’s a beat, then, “So, Hargrove,” Steve’s voice is a bit mocking, smile turning a bit wry. His eyes are kind, though, “What’s your first name anyway?” 

And that’s the dilemma, isn’t it? 

Billy wants to tell Steve his name. He doesn’t want Steve to hear it from someone else, doesn’t want Steve to know him as William Hargrove like the rest of Hawkins, because that’s not who he is. He wants to tell Steve his name is Billy, because it’s _always_ been Billy, it’s never been anything _but_ Billy, and he wants Steve to know that, but he can’t know that because Billy doesn’t know how to _fucking tell him. _

The silence goes on for too long. Steve tilts his head slightly, brow pinched together in a little bit of confusion, but there’s something soft there that Billy can’t quite place, “You shy or something?” 

Billy can’t help the way his face and chest heat. He can feel the blush spread across his skin, and that’s ridiculous because Billy never blushes. He’s not some girl Steve is putting the moves on. He shrugs, and it’s shy-- which he hates, because he’s _not_ shy, he’s never _been_ shy. 

Steve just makes him feel _seen_. 

It’s the eyes, Billy realizes. It’s those big, sweet goddamned _eyes_. 

Steve laughs at his shrug, and the sound is full of sympathy, “A big guy like you. Really?” 

The smile turns sweeter. With water making his hair cling against his nape, Steve seems warmer, more welcoming, “C’mon Hargrove, I’m not gonna bite. What’s your name?” 

So, yeah, maybe Billy is still under Steve’s spell. He doesn’t think he could bring himself to care, because with that smile and those eyes on him, Billy feels _warm_, feels _noticed_. 

They kinda make Billy _want_ to feel warm. They kinda make Billy _want_ to feel noticed. 

They kinda make Billy want to tell Steve everything. 

Maybe that’s why he’s almost not afraid of what comes next. Maybe that’s why he’s almost not afraid when he risks everything. 

“It’s Billy.” He signs.

There’s a long moment where Steve kinda just-- _stares_, and Billy’s stomach flops. Something flickers in those honey irises, and Billy knows Steve hasn’t made the connection yet. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t _get it_. 

Steve looks less confused and more tentative, like some sort of careful deer, “What was that?” 

Billy swallows. He signs again, “It’s Billy.” 

More staring. Steve lets out a fleeting laugh, breaking the suffocating silence. He’s laughing like there’s some joke he’s missing. His eyes flick to the locker room, like he’s expecting Tommy and the others to pop out and laugh at him. 

“No, seriously,” Steve says, and that deer is turning into something skittish, something stepping gingerly into Billy’s path-- curious, but also ready to _bolt_. He haphazardly tries to imitate Billy’s hand motions, “What was all _that_?” 

Steve’s eyes narrow, and that gaze is piercing, “Are you messing with me?” 

Billy shakes his head, jaw working a little in frustration because, _no_. 

He just wants Steve to know his name. 

He goes slow, so Steve understands that Billy’s not just making wild hand gestures to make fun of him or something _stupid_ like that. He tries to ignore how wildly his heart is beating when he signs again, “My name is Billy.” 

The connection is slow, but Billy sees it. He sees the exact moment when the recognition flickers and burns and turns into something bright. 

The smile drops entirely, and Billy waits, dread building in his stomach -- because he knew it, he fucking _knew_ this was a bad idea -- for Steve to laugh in his face, for him to start swinging, _something_. 

“Wait, that’s-- that’s sign language?” is what comes out of Steve’s mouth instead. 

And relief comes rushing up on Billy so fast it threatens to knock him flat on his ass with how strong it is. He nods, the movement uninhibited. 

He feels like laughing. He almost _does_. 

“You’re not-- it’s not a joke, is it? You’re not joking at all.” 

Billy rolls his eyes, shakes his head no. His nose scrunches up with it, because, _honestly--_ he’s never understood why people would think he’d be mute as a _joke_. 

“You’re actually,” Steve starts, then stops. He chews on his lower lip, gaze sweeping all over Billy, and it’s different from before. 

It’s like Billy’s a puzzle, and Steve’s looking for all the pieces. 

Billy raises his eyebrows at Steve, prompting him to continue. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t sign it. _I’m actually, what? _

“You’re, I dunno, what’s it called? Mute? Wait, you’re not deaf, are you?” Steve winces at his own remark, then flails to recover, “Shit, I didn’t mean-- sorry. That was probably rude.” 

It was probably rude. But Billy stopped being probably bothered by that question a long time ago. 

And the way Steve’s ears go all pink while he attempts to apologize and explain himself is sort of _endearing_. 

Billy thinks he kind of _loves_ that. 

“I’m not deaf. I can hear you.” Billy replies, and the sort of helpless look Steve gives him is enough for Billy to roll his eyes, even though he can’t quite keep the smile off his own face, which Steve echoes, albeit tentatively. 

Billy tucks wet hair behind his ear and very obviously points to it for Steve to see, and then gives him a thumbs up to show that he‘s good in the hearing department. He hopes Steve is smart enough to get it. 

Thankfully -- if the way Steve’s eyes go bright and golden, that tentative smile turning into something bigger, something hopeful, is anything to go by -- he does, “You’re not deaf?” 

When Billy gives him another thumbs up, Steve tips his head back and laughs, and it’s something _sweet_, a gift Billy never thought he’d get. 

“You’re kinda funny, y’know that?” Steve says, and _that-- _

Billy’s insides get hot. The words remind him of sand, of a cold beer can being pushed into his hands. They remind him of sharp white teeth, of an intricate silver feather dangling on a little chain, of a husky, beautiful voice whispering in his ear. 

_Pretty, too. _

That _hurts_, a little. 

He shrugs, desperately hoping he can write the blush off on the hot water, and his blood is singing with the urge to _run_, to get away from Steve and his spell as fast as he can. 

Despite the smile, uneasiness is rising just under Billy’s skin. He just risked everything to tell King Steve the one thing that could destroy him. He feels a little like he just placed his heart into Steve’s open palm. 

And now that he’s risked everything, Billy’s just waiting for the fallout. 

The bell rings overhead, signifying that the two of them are late to next period. 

Steve turns off his shower, “I’ll see you around?” and that’s not at all what Billy is expecting. Steve’s smile is kind, despite the fact he’s holding Billy’s heart in his hands -- a heart that he could just as easily crush if he wanted -- but he’s _not_. 

Instead, he’s _smiling_. 

And Billy’s antsy to get away because he knows he should be running. He should run away from King Steve and his golden eyes and never look back. And he knows he’d be better for it if he did. 

So Billy nods, moves around Steve and starts to slip out of this steam swirling dream because it’s hard to breathe. He doesn’t want to go, but he’s definitely late for class, and he can’t keep waiting for his heart to get crushed. His poor, fraying nerves can’t keep up with his twisted, fucked up heart. 

So it feels a lot like running away, until Steve is calling after him, “Hey, Hargrove!” 

And something changes-- it does, a little, when Billy turns to look back. There’s light in Steve’s eyes that’s no longer hidden, bright and curious, “How do I find out your first name?” 

And that’s something dangerous, isn’t it?

A little thrill starts drumming in Billy’s chest. 

He’d been so keyed up before by the idea of toppling over King Steve, a fire burning bright in his bones, but the minute he saw those eyes all that energy told him to run, run _far_ and run _fast_. 

So he did. He ran and hid away in the curling steam, and Steve followed and got him cornered. Like a dog catches a rabbit in between its paws. Steve barked, and terrified of the bite, Billy had risked everything. 

He waited for the teeth to end it in one quick little breath. But no teeth came. Because Steve had let him _go_. 

Now Billy’s rabbit quick heart is going a million miles an hour, caught here in between Steve’s paws, and now Steve’s barking for more. And there’s a little thrill drumming in his chest, because he knows that if he _runs-- _

If he runs, Steve’s gonna _chase_ him. 

And Billy kinda loves the idea of _King Steve_ chasing him. 

So he shrugs, grinning bright and sharp and inviting, and those golden eyes start to _glow_. 

Billy takes a step out of the curling steam, and signs, “Come find out, _pretty boy_.” 

He doesn’t wait to see what Steve does. He just turns on his heel, and walks away. 

And there’s a little thrill drumming in his chest, because it doesn’t feel like running, not anymore. 

It feels like something _new_. 

*** 

Billy drives home alone. 

The memory of this morning is still fresh, still painful, because he let Max go with shaky words and a swallowed down bitterness that tasted a whole lot like _guilt_. The Camaro feels bigger when he drives home. Emptier, too. 

Maybe that’s just Billy. 

He still feels raw when he gets inside, a little too exposed, like a layer of skin has been peeled back for the whole world to see. 

Billy wants to slip away into his own room, avoid a conflict all together, and straighten his head out. He wants to be able to just _be raw_, poke at his tender wounds safely tucked away in his own space, just for a little while. 

He doesn’t make it three steps before he hears a gruff, “Where’s Maxine?” 

Billy doesn’t have an answer-- couldn’t give Neil one, anyway. And it’s not like his father is ever expecting one.

Needless to say, it doesn’t go well. 

One sharp backhand across the face and long, long lecture about how it’s Billy’s job to keep an eye on Maxine -- _and_ give her rides whenever she needs it, _and_ know where she is at all times, and _god forbid_ he doesn’t _do his job_ \-- later, Billy is expected to make dinner on his own for the next week. 

Billy is peeling potatoes in the kitchen -- Neil and Susan are watching Miami Vice with the volume up too loud in the living room -- when he hears the front door open and slam shut. The familiar _thunk_ of a skateboard against the wall echoes into the kitchen. The TV’s turned up too loud for him to hear what Neil says, but a few minutes later there are soft footfalls coming up behind him. He sees fiery red in his peripheral, and he glances over. 

Frigid blue stares back at him, steely and closed off. 

There’s a beat of silence where they both stare at each other, before Max finally signs, halfhearted in her motion, “Hi.” 

Billy blinks. He answers with the potato peeler still in his hand, “Hello.” 

Her expression is still something he doesn’t know how to read, and Billy _hates it_. 

“Neil says I have to help you with dinner.” She says it aloud. 

“Okay.” 

Silence follows as the two of them begin to work in tandem around the kitchen, avoiding each other as much as they possibly can in the small space. 

It’s _awful_. 

Eventually, the quiet is too much. Billy has to ask, “Where were you?” 

“The arcade,” she answers, and shoots him a suspicious look, “Why?” 

Billy shrugs, rubbing at his nose. The slight soreness where Neil’s hit landed lets him know it probably won’t bruise, but he should avoid getting smacked in the future if he doesn’t want his entire nose to turn purple. 

“Next time I’ll give you a ride.” He signs it. 

“Okay.” 

*** 

Billy dreams he’s at the beach. 

The sun is hot in California and the wind feels nice where he sits in the sand. He’s alone. 

He’s crying. 

The waves wash in and out without any noise. The wind is soundless. He can’t even hear his own ragged breathing. The whole world seems like it’s been put on--

He’s supposed to be here. 

He’s supposed to be here. He _knows_ he’s supposed to be here, but _the thing is--_

The thing is he can’t remember _why_. 

*** 

It starts that morning in the parking lot, _sort of. _

Billy’s sucking down his second cigarette of the day while he leans on the side of the Camaro. He’s only half listening to Tommy and Carol complain about god knows what -- a little too caught up with not freezing his balls off in the autumn chill -- when a Beamer rolls into the student lot. 

Billy watches it, because he can. Also because it’s more interesting than whatever Tommy’s bitching about. 

The Beamer pulls into the lot a few spots down from the Camaro and Billy takes another drag, the smoke coming wispy and white off his lips. 

A moment later Billy is stamping out the cigarette entirely because the only high he needs is stepping out of the driver’s seat, golden gaze hidden neatly under black ray-bans. 

Steve steps out and something in Billy’s bones start humming. The epicenter of the feeling flashes, crisp and clear, right at the base of his spine. He shivers, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the cold. 

He’s maybe about to do something dumb and antagonistic to get Steve’s attention when another figure steps out of the passenger seat. 

“Uh oh,” Carol singsongs flatly, changing course mid sentence when she eyes what Billy’s looking at, “Here comes everyone’s favorite sloppy seconds.” 

“Ridgemont High eat your heart out.” Tommy snickers. 

“Are you _blind_?” Carol makes an affronted sound, “Nancy Wheeler has _nothing_ on Phoebe Cates.” 

Tommy says something else that gets both him and Carol chittering, but Billy doesn’t hear him. 

The girl, _Nancy Wheeler_, steps out, and she’s got brown locks that fall just under her chin. She looks a bit mousy for Billy’s taste, at first. But when she turns her head just right, a sharp intellect glints in those big grey eyes, and Billy _knows better_. 

She shudders when she steps out into the cold, burying her hands in her jacket pockets, and Billy falters. 

She’s wearing a bomber jacket. It’s green and long in the sleeves and wide in the shoulders and too big to be her’s. 

He blinks. 

It’s not her jacket. It’s Steve’s jacket. 

Steve gave Nancy his jacket. 

Then Billy just sorta blatantly stares at them as Steve comes around the front of his Beamer -- with his dumb ray-bans and long sleeve blue polo and no jacket because _Nancy’s wearing it_ \-- and brushes a stray curl out of Nancy’s face like its second nature. He leans against the Beamer and gives her a little lopsided, sweet smile that would make anyone _melt_ on the spot. 

Billy doesn’t hear what Steve says next, the low tone doesn’t carry on the wind, but Nancy rolls her eyes, lips quirking into a helpless little smile. Her cheeks and nose are a little rosier in the cold.

She reaches up to pull the dumb ray-bans off his face and tuck them away in his jacket pocket that she’s wearing, and even from here Billy can hear the fondness in her flutelike voice when she says, “You’re an _idiot_, Steve Harrington.” 

Then Nancy’s popping up onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Steve turns his face Billy’s way to let her, and their eyes _lock_. 

Even all the way across the parking lot, that gaze _burns_. 

Billy’s jaw works, even as his stomach flops, even as his face heats. Even as a little thrill starts thrumming in his chest. 

He watches those eyes flicker and _glow_, and Steve’s whole face lights up. He gives Billy a half wave with a smile that’s brighter than the _goddamned sun_, and Billy’s pretty sure all the air is sucked out of his lungs with the heat of it. 

Breathless and buzzing, Billy fights the urge to grin back-- which, really, is just an excuse to bare his teeth at Steve in a way that says _come and get me_ and bolt. Instead he nods a hello in return and shoots Steve a smile, one that’s sharp and bright but not quite burning. 

But then Nancy’s looking over too, and when she sees Billy’s smile her lips purse into a thin line-- and Billy _knows_ _better_. 

But that doesn’t seem to stop him from redirecting and grinning at her too, toothy and sharklike. He wants to get a rise out of her, a _reaction_, because Billy’s an _asshole_ this morning, apparently. 

It must work, because Nancy drops the careful look and goes straight to frowning. She looks up at Steve and says something that Billy can’t hear. Steve’s answer is just as quiet, but he doesn’t look at Nancy when he answers. 

Steve keeps looking at Billy, and it makes Billy feel just a little bit like he _won_ something. 

Billy can think of only one thing that could make it better. 

Locking eyes with King Steve across the parking lot, Billy lets his grin practically go Cheshire, and _winks_. 

Maybe it’s not smart, baiting Steve like this. 

It kinda feels worth it when Billy watches something in that honey spark, then _flare_. 

But then Steve starts to move towards Billy with a look of _intent_\-- and Billy decides very quickly that it is not smart. It’s a stupid idea, it’s the _stupidest_ idea.

But that little thrill is thrumming in his chest. 

And Billy’s finding he’s willing to be maybe just a little bit stupid when it comes to Steve Harrington. 

He’s just a little too late to the draw when he rapts his knuckles on the top of the Camaro twice in signal to Carol and Tommy that _we’re going now._ Billy tries not to count the number of steps he takes-- four, he makes it exactly _four steps_, if anyone asks -- before the only voice he ever wants to hear is ringing in the air. 

“Hey, Hargrove!” Steve calls after them, and smooth as anything, Billy turns on his heel to watch him half walk half jog to catch up, Nancy trailing hesitantly behind. 

He fixes Steve with a smile, one so sugary sweet it sticks to Billy’s teeth like taffy. He stands tall, even if Steve’s taller, and raises his eyebrow in a way that radiates with the _yes, pretty boy?_ burning on his tongue. 

Of all the things Billy is expecting Steve to say-- and there are _a lot_, he’s run through about a dozen by the time Steve is actually standing in front of him--

“Mind if I bum a cigarette?” is not one of them. 

It’s not what anyone else is expecting either, if the way Nancy turns a whole different shade of pink before Billy’s very eyes is anything to go by. Through her teeth she scoffs out a “_Steve,_” that so full of disdain it has something sparking in Billy’s chest, because _oh_, this is just _too fucking good_. 

Billy holds up a finger in a _one moment please_ gesture that has Tommy sniggering and Steve’s eyes rolling, before he makes a big show of patting down his pockets. When he comes up empty, he gives Steve an innocent little shrug that means _sorry man, I’m fresh out. _

He’s not fresh out. There’s a whole other pack of cigarettes in the Camaro’s glove compartment. Billy just likes the game a little too much to give in that easy. 

“Come on, man,” Steve’s shifting on his feet now, impatient, like he’s really _jonesing_ for a cigarette. Billy watches Nancy’s protesting confusion morph into one of genuine surprise. 

There’s something off about the whole display. Something that Billy doesn’t quite like. It’s too animated, likely for everybody else’s -- probably Nancy’s, if he’s being honest -- sake than his own. A coverup for something _deeper_. 

When all Billy does is shrug again and start the slow turn on his heel to go, Steve adds, “I’ll owe you one?” 

And _yeah, okay_, Billy doesn’t have a clue what this whole drama is about, but he doesn’t believe for a second that it’s over a _cigarette_.

But when he looks, those honey eyes glint in the morning light, and it clicks.

Steve wants something from him. 

Tommy mutters a heated, sour sounding, “Yeah, right,” and Steve’s smile turns a little sharp, like he knows Billy won’t turn that kind of offer down, and Billy hates him for it because he’s _right_. 

Billy hesitates, just for a moment, before he nods and makes a vague gesture towards the Camaro, and Steve’s look is just a bit too _smug_ for Billy’s liking. 

“Awesome,” he says, and both Nancy and Tommy make a noise similar to affronted crows. 

Tommy says some sort of goodbye before he’s storming off with a huff, Carol in tow, and Billy offers him a wave that Tommy throws back a bit too aggressively. 

When he looks back, Nancy looks ready to blow a gasket in like, the most _haughty way_, and Billy has to bite his lip to tamp down the grin threatening to split his face in two. 

“I’ll catch you inside?” Steve says to her, and for half a millisecond Nancy gets this careful, assessing look in her eye. It cuts between the two of them, wicked sharp and all too _knowing_, before it’s gone again and she’s nodding. 

“Okay,” she says, and then she’s shrugging off Steve’s jacket and handing it back over to him. 

He takes it, confused, “What’s this for?” 

Her cheeks tint, “I don’t want you to get cold.” 

Steve gives her that stupidly sweet smile, and Nancy rolls her eyes with a harmless “_shut up,_” before she’s planting a kiss on his cheek. It stirs something inside Billy he doesn’t know how to name. It tastes bitter on his tongue, in the back of his throat. 

He can’t watch for too long, so he doesn’t. 

Billy’s already halfway to the Camaro by the time they’re done. Nancy leaves, and Billy hears the crunch of cold ground as Steve jogs to catch up with him. 

Harrington lets out a low, appreciative whistle at the sight of the Camaro, “_Damn_, nice ride. Is it yours?” 

In lieu of actually signing like he wants to, Billy gives Steve a nod before digging out his keys from his pocket. He ends up smacking Steve’s hand away when he tries to touch the hood, and his only response to the indignant “_hey!_” Steve lets out is to fix him with a look that very clearly means _don’t touch my fucking car._

“Sorry, sorry-- _jeez_,” Steve says as he rubs at his wrist, but Billy can tell from the way he bites his lip to keep the smile down that he’s _not sorry_ at all, which kinda pisses Billy off because it makes him wanna smile too. 

He pulls out his pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment. Placing one in between his teeth, he leans against the side of the Camaro and offers the pack up to Steve. 

“Thanks.” Steve says as he pulls one loose, and he’s quiet for the few short moments it takes for Billy to take out his lighter and light his own cigarette before tossing it to Steve, who diligently does the same and tosses it back. 

The silence settles between them. It sticks to the back of Billy’s throat, clogging it with the burning question he wants to ask but isn’t going to. 

He waits, patient, while Steve stands there smoking across from him, and tries to ignore his fingers going numb in the cold. 

“Does Tommy know you don’t talk?” Steve kinda asks but more just blurts out, and Billy jerks at the question so quick he almost burns himself with his cigarette. 

He’s not sure which emotion he feels stronger, the white hot _fury_ or the icy grip of _fear_. 

It happens so strong and so quick he thinks it’s either gonna knock him on his ass or it’s gonna make him knock _Steve_ on his ass, and right now he doesn’t know which option sounds more appealing. 

Steve keeps going, “I’m just saying, he never seems like he’s bothered by it. Carol too. Did you tell them about the sign language thing? I mean, do they know that you’re mute--,” 

The word is barely out of Steve’s mouth before Billy is dropping his cigarette in favor of grabbing Steve by the collar and bodily slamming him against the Camaro, the other hand coming up to plant itself across Steve’s mouth to stop the flow of noise and _fucking_ _secrets. _

His first instinct is to immediately scan the rest of the parking lot. There’s no one else in sight. No one overheard, no one saw.

Caught in between furious and terrified, Billy forces his gaze back on Harrington. 

Steve’s one hand is braced against Billy’s forearm holding him up against the Camaro, while the other has a sure grip on Billy’s wrist with the hand covering his mouth. Not braced to push Billy away, but a firm presence to stop from any further movements. It’s a defensive stance, Steve’s slender fingers wound _tight_, but not tight enough to bruise. He stays very, very still in Billy’s hold. 

There’s something to his gaze, too. Something in the way the morning light catches in his eyes, turns them piercing, turns them_ golden_. Billy can’t look too long or he thinks he’s gonna catch _fire_. 

Neither of them move. Billy doesn’t even _breathe_. 

Then, slowly, like he’s afraid Billy’s gonna spook, Steve gives his wrist a gentle tug, pulling Billy’s hand away from his mouth. 

There’s a beat where they both just stare at each other. Then, Steve lets out a nervous breath of a laugh, “Guess that’s a no for Tommy, huh?” 

Billy swallows back down his heart from where it had risen up into his throat. He nods. 

The adrenaline leaves him just as quickly as it came. It leaves him shaky, off balance, and just a little bit _dizzy_. He lets go of Steve, moves to lean against the Camaro’s hood to fumble for another cigarette. He breathes. 

That was close. That was _way too_ _fucking close._

Steve watches him quietly while he smokes. He doesn’t say anything, which Billy is grateful for. The silence stretches long, and Billy has the strange urge to _fill it_. 

After a beat, Steve is talking again. "You don’t want anybody to know.” 

It’s not a question. 

Billy nods. 

“Why?” 

He doesn’t answer. 

“Does _anybody_ know?” 

Billy looks up. 

“You know,” he signs, “Just you is enough.” 

“What?” 

Billy throws his hands up, done with this song and dance. He flicks the cigarette away before he’s storming off towards the school, because honestly? Fuck this. 

“Where are you--,” Harrington starts, and then he’s calling after Billy, “Hey, no-- wait. Hargrove, _wait_.” 

Billy keeps going. He almost makes it to the door before there’s a hand on his shoulder turning him around. He maybe jerks a little too hard away from it, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice-- too busy rummaging through his jacket pockets. 

“I’m not saying you have to, but,” Steve pulls out a big, black sharpie and holds it out to Billy, “I think you should tell someone.” 

Billy stares at him, shifting on his feet. Unsure. Untrusting.

“Take it,” Steve says, eyes careful, cautious, but hopeful too, “Please?” 

The morning light catches just right, and Billy has to try hard not to fall back into Steve’s spell. 

After a minute, Billy nods, takes the marker. He gives Steve a look that means _okay, maybe_. 

Steve smiles a bit like Billy spoke the words out loud. 

*** 

There is no terrible fallout waiting for Billy when he steps inside that day. 

Or the day after that. Or the next day, or the next day after that.

Nobody starts spitting on him in the hallway or making halfass attempts at mocking sign language in between classes. 

A whole _week_ goes by, and there’s _nothing_. 

It’s _surreal_, is what it is. Like that conversation with Steve didn’t even happen. 

But it did happen, there’s no pretending it didn’t. And Billy didn’t survive this long by being dependent on others, so he’s still got his guard up. 

No matter how pretty King Steve had smiled at him, that doesn’t mean there isn’t something _wicked_ waiting to snap Billy up behind those honey irises. 

Even so, Steve’s words turn over and over in his head. 

_I think you should tell someone. _

It’s a bad idea. It’s the _worst_ idea. Billy doesn’t even want to consider it. Except he _is, _so.

Who would he even tell? 

Not Tommy, that’s for sure. Not Carol either. Those two can’t keep a secret to save their lives. Everyone in Hawkins would know by the end of the week. So, _no_, not fucking _Tommy_. 

Who else is there to _tell_? _Max’s friends_? 

No, definitely not. Billy’s pretty sure she’s told them all that he _hates her_. No need to add more kindling to that fire. 

There’s Nancy, which, maybe? But they didn’t exactly get off on the right foot-- being an aggressive asshole will do that. 

Besides, Nancy is _smart_, and she might tell someone like a _school counselor_ or something, and that’s a whole other issue entirely. A school counselor would want to like, look into his home life, and Billy really doesn’t need that. 

He doesn’t want to think about what would happen if _Neil_ found out he’d _told someone_.

Who does that leave? 

Ms. Brown. 

The thought comes, unbidden, in the middle of AP Physics. It startles him up out of the midday haze he’d fallen into. 

They’re taking a quiz -- something about Newtonian mechanics and proton mass -- and Billy had finished up early. He’s leaning back in his chair, messing with his pencil eraser while Jonathan Byers stresses and revises his answers next to him. 

Billy looks to the front of the room, where Ms. Brown is sitting at her desk, grading quizzes from the previous class. Her hair is tied back in a low bun, and every few seconds she adjusts her glasses before making a mark on the page. 

Billy doesn’t think she’d react that bad, would she? 

No, she’d probably like him for it. She’s been trying to get him to talk since day one, and actually telling her what his deal is might _make her day_. Teachers are weird like that. 

Ms. Brown looks up, catches him staring. He shoots her a sweet sweet smile, one that she must know means he’s faking the politeness by now. 

She just smiles back-- one that’s actually polite and genuinely _kind_, before she goes back to work with a soft shake of her head. 

Billy thinks about the sharpie burning a hole in his pocket. 

He sits up and revises his answers for the rest of the period. 

*** 

Things don’t get better with Max. 

They keep sniping at each other, each insult always just a little meaner than the last. It’s rare that they get through a conversation without it turning heated, ugly. 

Ever since they’ve gotten to Hawkins, Max has gotten sharper, _harsher_. 

She seems fine whenever she’s with her new little rat pack of friends she’s seemed to have made. But whenever she looks at Billy, whatever joy or laughter that had been in her eyes not a few seconds before fades. 

Now she just seems exasperated. Bitter. 

It’s not like Billy’s a saint in the matter either. When he can’t read her past the sharp and harsh and bitter, Billy gets angry, gets abrasive. Mean.

Mix it all together and you’ve got a bomb impatiently waiting for a lit fuse. 

It had to come to a head eventually. 

He’s picking her up from the school, and sees her hanging out front with a boy he recognizes as Lucas, one of the nerd squad she’s hanging around with now. 

He watches them talk while Max gathers up her things. When Max isn’t looking, Lucas looks at her in a way that’s two parts wonder and three parts bewilderment, like she’s the coolest mystery he’s ever seen. Like she’s a puzzle that he’s determined to figure out. It’s kind of _endearing_. 

It’s gone off his face when she turns to say goodbye, replaced by something more suave and serious, which really makes the kid look plain goofy, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. 

They say goodbye, and when she’s not looking Lucas smiles at Max like maybe she’s _not real_, like she’s too good to be true. It makes something in his chest get tight. 

Lucas smiles at Max like Billy used to smile at-- _well_. 

Max is in the car before he can finish the thought. She turns down the radio, dampening the sound of Ratt’s drum solo from _skull pounding_ to a moderate level. 

“Who was that?” He asks-- teases, actually, because they haven’t had a normal conversation in _weeks_. 

Max stiffens up, “Just someone from class,” the answer is clipped, which means she’s _lying_, “He’s helping me with a school project.” 

“A school project,” he repeats,“_Right_.” 

She glares at him, and Billy feels just a little bit smug. 

“His name’s Lucas, right?” He asks, and she looks up, surprised, “Don’t act so shocked. I listen when you and Susan talk.” 

Max scoffs at that, but doesn’t answer. 

Billy frowns, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“_Nothing_.” But she says it low, says it mean, so clearly it means _something_. 

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” 

“I didn’t even _say_ anything,” and there’s that sharpness. She says, “Don’t do that.” 

Billy grits his teeth, “Do what?” 

She hesitates, then, “Nothing. Just-- let’s go home. Start the car.” 

“Don’t do _what_, Max?” 

“Pretend like you know how I feel,” she snaps at him, “You don’t know anything.” 

And now it’s Billy’s turn to scoff. His motions turn sharp, sarcastic, “Yeah, okay Max. You’re right. I don’t know fucking anything.” 

“You _don’t_,” Max insists, not even bothering to sign anymore, “You act like you care, but you don’t. You don’t even _know me_ anymore.” 

“What, and Lucas does?” 

That must hit a nerve, because her eyes go wide, cheeks tinting pink. She hisses at him, “Shut up, Billy.” 

It only gets him more riled, “He your boyfriend or something? Gonna go crying to him and bitch about all your problems? Gonna let him _kiss it better_?” 

“You’re one to talk,” She shoots back, eyes flashing, and something acidic and violent inside of Billy shakes _loose_.

“You think he _knows_ you?” Billy rounds on her. He wants to laugh in her face. He almost _does_, “He only likes you because you’re new. He’ll get bored of you soon enough. Everybody fucking does.” 

Her eyes flare bright and savage at his hand motions, and suddenly she’s spitting at him with such vitriol it makes Billy’s whole world shift, “Fuck you! You’re such a goddamn hypocrite. Don’t act like you didn’t do the same thing with _Angel--_!” 

And Billy-- Billy has fucking _had it. _

He snatches at her wrist mid-sentence, squeezes maybe just shy of too hard to make sure she knows he’s _done_ with this bullshit, just enough to convey the vicious way he wants to shout “_Hey_!” in her face. 

Max isn’t expecting him to grab her. Her eyes blow _wide_, and it’s a look Billy hasn’t seen since he held her, when his face was broken and bleeding, on the kitchen floor in California. 

He lets go the second he feels her flinch, a small sound caught in the back of her throat, like she’s trying to stifle a whimper. Billy’s not _that guy_. He would never, ever purposefully try and hurt Max. He was just frustrated and Max _wasn’t listening_ and he can’t just _tell her that and--_

The excuse dies on his tongue. 

Max is looking at him with wide blue. Billy watches as that blue turns frigid and defensive before they can get watery and hurt. 

She looks away, and Billy feels like he’s gonna be _sick_. 

“Just drive.” Max says, curling up against the passenger window. 

He drives. 

*** 

The quarry is a quiet place at sundown. 

He finds it -- _sort of_ \-- by accident. 

Neil ran over Max’s skateboard in the driveway, _crunched it _clean in two. His father stomped around the house for a half hour yelling about it, working himself up. 

When his father’s fists start to curl, the scope of his fury set on _Max_, Billy smashes a wine glass on the kitchen floor. 

The purpling bruise on his jaw is well worth it if it means Max doesn’t have one. 

After that he just needed to _get out_, hoping to find someplace quiet and still, and the back roads of Hawkins led him here. 

He doesn’t go down to the water, staying parked up top to overlook the quarry below. Billy can see long, _deep_ tire tracks down in the stones, like there had been a whole squadron of cars down there at some point. 

The trees seem taller here, the shadow longer. Noise is muffled too, like there’s a massive blanket of-- _something_ pressing down on these woods. He looks down at the tire tracks, embedded deep into the earth and stones. Idly, he wonders what happened in this small town to make the silence settle so heavily here.

With nothing better to do, Billy decides to sit on his hood and smoke until the thunder rumbling inside him matches the silence outside. 

He’s going for his lighter when he feels something else in his back pocket. Without thinking, he pulls out the sharpie. 

He’s supposed to tell someone.  
  
Right.

He turns the sharpie over and over in his fingers. 

Fuck, what would he even _say_? 

He starts to pace, eyes momentarily brushing over the way the sunset makes the shadows burn purplish yellow in the woods around him. 

He stares back down at the marker, like it has all the answers. 

Billy uncaps the sharpie. 

She had a list, didn’t she? A list of things she wanted to know about her students for that stupid ice breaker thing that no one wanted to participate in. 

Scrambling to find something to write on in the Camaro proves difficult, and Billy grits his teeth against his fraying patience. 

He eventually finds some half torn receipt that’s more white space than actual receipt, and braces it against the glovebox to keep his hand steady. 

She wanted to know his name or his nickname. 

With the sharpie, he writes _My name is William Hargrove. Call me Billy. _

She wanted to know his favorite color. 

_My favorite color is blue._ The tail end of the e on blue smudges a bit. 

She wanted to know his favorite animal. 

He thinks for a moment. Then-- _My favorite animal is a shark. _

_My name is William Hargrove. Call me Billy. My favorite color is blue. My favorite animal is a shark. _

Leaning back in his seat, he reads it over once, twice, three times. 

He breathes slow in. He breathes slow out.

Setting the paper on his lap, he signs the words as he reads them over again. 

“My name is William Hargrove. Call me Billy. My favorite color is blue. My favorite animal is a shark.” 

It’s four sentences. He can do four sentences. 

Next time, he tries to mouth along with the words as he signs. No sound comes out. There’s a dam at the back of his throat, lodged against his vocal cords. No matter now hard he tries -- and _Christ_, does he _try_ \-- the words won’t come through. 

It’s the thought that counts, he supposes. 

He signs it again, and again, and again, until the thunder inside quiets to match the barest slivers of the sunset, steady and low. 

He breathes slow in. He breathes slow out. It’s easier this time. 

It’s four sentences. 

_Yeah_, Billy thinks-- he can do that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to yell at me on [tumblr!](https://kiwiibiird.tumblr.com/)


End file.
